


The Mirrors in her Mind

by TheSleepingKnight



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Body Horror, Cannibalism, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Gen, Lots of Murder, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mutilation, Psychological Drama, SmugBug - Freeform, au elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-01-15 06:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepingKnight/pseuds/TheSleepingKnight
Summary: and all the reflections she shattered.





	1. Chapter 1

I stare at the little house, light spilling out from the windows and flowing onto the lawn. It does not reach me. Those hiding inside won’t see me, until it is too late. Anticipation mixed with anger and feverish  _ hunger  _ creates a heady cocktail in my throat, and I swallow it with relish. The moments before are almost as satisfying as the feasting itself. 

I am a predator.   
  
I am hunting.

I throw my entire body into the front door, and it explodes, wooden shrapnel bursting before me. Normally I would find such wanton destruction dull, but this gratifying in the extreme, given what is immediately to follow. 

The man comes, racing down the stairs. I am already pouncing as I leap at the stupid little thing, jaws stretching wide so that I might sink my teeth into the soft, inviting flesh of his throat. I rip and I tear, and it is good. There is so much to drink. So much to _eat. _

I hear a scream from downstairs, and I realize in my excitement I had forgotten about the woman. That would not do. I abandon my meal and come racing down. She is speaking into something, to  _ someone.  _ I stop that as I leap, hind legs carrying me through the air as I plow into her, slamming her back into the table. Something breaks with a wet  _ crunch _ , and I smile. The phone is easily crushed. 

Now I can take my time. 

I lower my mouth once more to feast—

Lisa is so deep inside the reconstruction that when someone shakes her shoulder, it takes her a second not to scream (not to  _ bite _ ). Reality returns in stages: touch, scent, sound and sight, but each one is accompanied by a phantom sensation that lingers like a bad dream. When she asks the police officer why she had bothered her, she feels as if she’s speaking through a mouthful of blood. She wonders whose it is and then focuses on not throwing up her lunch, what little she ate. 

“Kid, someone’s trying to call you.” As soon as the phone hits her hand, the officer backs away as if Lisa has the plague. Lisa wonders if the officer had seen the flash of someone else dancing in Lisa’s eyes. She ignores the thought like she ignores the pounding pulse of animalistic anger and presses  _ Accept.  _ She knows that number. It’s her boss. 

“Oracle. A Ward has been killed.”

The world goes mute, but in a very different way. This one is almost worse, because she knows that the coiling fear and rolling panic in her gut is all her. Her imagination, prodded by her power, begins generating all kinds of ways that Lily could be dead, dead, dead with her throat cut and bleeding out over the stairs, that fucking  _ bitch  _ March gloating and kissing her corpse, flowers pressed into Lily’s eyes— “ _ Oracle.  _ Calm down. It wasn’t one of ours. Happened in Brockton Bay. We’re putting you on a plane ASAP. I need you to come back here and pick up your things, okay?”    


Lisa doesn’t even finish saying  _ yes  _ before the call cuts.

As she has done so many times before, she stitches herself back together (with few shards of someone getting sown inside, there to stay) and then she moves. 

* * *

It’s seven in the evening and she is on a plane, exhaustion and the aftermath of anxiety pulsing in her brain. The coffee cuts through the edge, but only by a little. Airline quality, after all. 

If nothing else, an hour flight gives her time to compose herself, and to read the hastily printed off files she was given before being thrown back in another car at headquarters. 

She still couldn’t quite believe that a Ward had been  _ murdered.  _ Wasn’t as if that had never happened before, but usually the sentence was preceded with _ The Slaughterhouse 9 were in town.  _ Could this possibly be them? Fucking hell. 

With no better alternatives, Lisa begins to read.

Six teenagers… The first one was found in a warehouse roughly a month and a half ago. As time went on, the serial killer appeared to get bolder, with less and less time between the murders. Oddly enough, the bodies had all been found with the same phrase graffiti-ed somewhere near the body:  _ Dig Two Graves.  _ Lisa gets out her phone and finds the quote, not particularly concerned about messing with the airplane’s navigation. Apparently, it was largely attributed to  Confucius, a Chinese philosopher… and another quick search confirms that yes, an Asian-themed gang existed in Brockton Bay. As did a gang of Neo-Nazis. The dots connect quickly. ABB member looking to kill EE8 gang members as revenge, add a dramatic flair with the quote...and judging by how five out of six victims had been attending or was related to someone attending Winslow High, the killer was also related to the school somehow.

Except…

Frederick Michaels, also known as Browbeat. Recently triggered, a biokinetic with short-range telekinesis. He was 16 and rather plain, according to the photos. Blonde hair, pale blue eyes. Hadn’t been in the Wards that long either. No notable encounters or issues, or even any real hobbies or habits. Remarkably  _ ordinary _ , for a parahuman. Boring, even.   
  
He broke the pattern by his attendance of a different highschool, Arcadia. A deliberate move on the killer’s part, or simply a case of horrible luck and the worst timing? 

The plane lands with a jolt, and Lisa knows that she’ll see the answer soon. 

A PRT car is waiting for her when she makes it out of the airport, and she’s not even finished buckling in before the car peels off and away. No one is in the backseat with her, and that’s fine by her. Her eyelids feel like they’ve got lead weights attached to them, but lately, sleep wouldn’t come. She tries to settle down her mind, but meditative techniques have never really worked for her. There’s too much buzzing around her brain to ever get real peace outside of true sleep, and sometimes not even then.

It’s hard to sleep with the shadow of someone else crawling underneath your skull. 

They arrive, and she takes a moment to compose herself before stepping out of the car, and she finds herself staring at a warehouse lit up by police lights, red and blue washing over and breathing color into rusting grey. Police officers and detectives were buzzing, chattering with their Protectorate counterparts. Lisa quickly bobs and weaves through them, under the yellow tape, and into the— 

Oh.

… _ oh.  _

For a single screaming moment, Lisa wants to walk out and run. She knows with a bone deep certainly that whatever she sees is going to stay with her for a very long time. 

But it passes. 

_ Come on, Lise. _

She still hasn’t forgotten the sound of his voice. 

_ Get to work.  _

“I need everyone to leave the room.” 

There’s a beat of silence as everyone takes in the command from a girl not even half their age. After what feels like far too long, someone says,“You heard the lady, people. Pack up and let her do her thing.” Everyone begins moving, taking equipment with them. Lisa has already begun to filter them out, the haze setting in before the first— 

_ Tick.  _

In the sterile space where her power lives, the imaginary clock hand slides back. 

_ Tick.  _

The noise dies.

_ Tick. _

The lights vanish.

_ Tick.  _

The body comes down.

_ Tick. _

And  _ here I am.  _

I move, dragging Browbeat’s body across the ground. I have ensured his powers will not interfere with what happens next. I am methodical. Precise. I have rehearsed this scenario in my mind so many times, this feels more like memory than a first performance. 

I hoist him up, a simple system of rope and pulleys. I’d love for him to be awake, but necessity keeps him asleep. I stabilize him, making sure everything is ready. It must be perfect. Nothing less will satisfy me. 

I position the body just right, and then I take the sharpened bamboo shaft and drive it down through his stomach, slowly pushing until it hits the ground, slotting neatly into the hole I’ve dug for it. In the moonlight, the blood looks black. Browbeat might wake. He might not. But by then, it will be far too late. 

I pick up the second bamboo shaft. This one goes through his chest, and with a steady hand, I break his ribs, taking a moment to savor how bone crumbles beneath my touch. Then continue my work. Once more, the bamboo finds a pre-dug hole. The blood is beginning to fall in earnest, dropping in rivers of crimson to the ground, making play at imitating rain. I find this song beautiful.

The third piece goes through the other side of his ribs. I repeat my motions from before, echoing the notes, but this time I add a section at the end, undoing the ropes. Now, he is held in the air by three shafts piercing his body. The next two are for stabilization… and for effect. Finally, I write the message with a knife on his back, deft strokes carving crimson lines. And then I take a moment to… bask.   
  
Frederick Michaels, painted by moonbeams, blood, and shadows. The bamboo shafts raise him up, like an offering to god. In death, he is more majestic and purposeful then he ever was in life. I have cleansed him of his impurities and transformed him into something beautiful. 

This is my design. 

Lisa comes back to herself and manages to get all the way to the car before she throws up. 

* * *

After she gives her report, she is promptly put back in the car and driven to the Brockton Bay PRT Headquarters, her new home away from home. That’s where the other bodies are, of course. 

She’s barely cognizant of the fact that the car stops at all. The sensations of this last one are  _ powerful,  _ the result of diving into a deeply twisted psychosis. She’s staring out at the world through someone else’s eyes, and the way these  _ little, nothing people  _ move causes a strange irritation. She keeps going back to the memory of Browbeat, frozen by pale light, and her horror and the killer’s quiet delight mix into an unsettling quagmire inside her brain. She can’t focus on anything. The sight of her— of  _ their  _ work is a permanent portrait in the gallery of her memories. 

The car comes to a rolling stop once again, and Lisa staggers out and into the building. She goes through the security checks, verifies her identity thrice over. Answer a few basic questions to assure that yes, it’s really her. Really, wasn’t getting through airport security enough of a hassle? 

The only real upside to any of it is that by the time she emerges and sees a figure in silvery armor waiting for her, the lingering sensations from her power have faded, mostly. (The body is still so starkly visible, impressed like afterburn on her eyes. A dark version of pride swells in her chest at the memory along with the nausea. An alien sense of satisfaction rattles inside her lungs. She can’t get whoever she’s let into her head out. _ . _ ) 

“Hello there, Oracle. I’m Gallant. Nice to meet you.” She shakes his armored hand, and fortunately he doesn’t squeeze hard at all. “Please, come with me.”   
  
“I don’t suppose you have any coffee on you? It’s been far too long since I had my last cup.”   
  
“I’m afraid not.” Gallant murmurs, guiding her down the sterile white of the hallways. “But there’s a coffee machine in the break room. I’ll bring you some.”  
  
“Thanks.” Lisa knows she should say more after that, but exhaustion and phantom sensation beats down her already very small social conscience. The more she talks, the greater the chance that she might give voice to the new impulses imprinted on her brain. They walk in false silence, echoes bouncing as metal soles and boots clack and smack against the floor. 

Eventually, she winds up at the door titled  _ Mortuary: Authorized Personnel Only.  _ Gallant digs out a keycard and slides it through the electronic lock, and a small light flashes green with a sound that scrapes against the insides of Lisa’s eardrums.

The morgue already has a visitor. An overweight woman, blonde, in a navy suit and pencil skirt. As she turns to face Lisa, it becomes very apparent that she hasn’t slept either— the bags under her stormy grey eyes are long and dark. 

“Oracle, this is Director Piggot. Director Piggot, Oracle.” Gallant needlessly clarifies. 

“Thank you, Gallant.” Director Piggot’s voice is soft, but it is certainly not kind. “That will be all.”

“I’ll be back with that coffee, Oracle. Ma’am.” And with that, he’s gone.

A pause stretches on for eternity as Piggot simply stares at Lisa, almost as if she’s trying to glare a hole in Lisa’s visor. Eventually, Piggot speaks,

“I don’t like this.”  
  
Lisa doesn’t say anything. She knows that Piggot’s not done.

“I don’t like that you’re here. I don’t like how I have to make a seventeen year old girl look at something that belongs in a horror novel. I don’t like how tomorrow I’m going to have to go and explain to Browbeat’s parents why I let their son die under my watch and broke all my promises.” Her shoulders droop slightly amidst her confession. “I promised him he’d be safe. Now, fate has made a liar of me as well as a fool.” Piggot takes a deep breath, and then seems to let go of whatever emotion had prompted that little speech. “Can you catch him?”

The question is a wall, and Lisa can hear the storm that’s raging behind it.

“Yes.” 

“Good. Then tell me what you need.”

“Show me the other bodies. And I’m going to need a list of Empire Eighty-Eight attacks dating back about two months ago at the least.”

Piggot nods and moves. 

The mortuary slabs slide open, revealing the corpses of five boys. They looked similar in life, and death has only brought them even closer to each other, and… 

And  _ tick. _

_ Tick. _

_ Tick. _

The clock is moving before she even consciously realizes it. Piggot fades, as does the other bodies, as she focuses on the first, her world narrowing to a single being. 

_ Tick.  _

I move towards him. His arms and legs have been bound tightly. He is gagged, and I have ensured that even if he could remove it, no one would hear him scream. I position myself, and then I drive—

No. 

Wait.

Something’s wrong.

The bamboo’s not  _ there.  _ Not yet. I am holding and positioning clumps of  _ dirt,  _ delicate and ready to crumble into a mess with the slightest misstep. I go to my knees, spreading and shaping my little addition to the already dirt-laiden floor, lining up the positions with the body and then bringing my hand not to the ground, but to what lies within. I have planted the seeds, cultivated them, provided them with all they need.

Now it is time to make them grow. Grow and  _ pierce  _ what is suspended above them, slowly. Like skewering a pig on a roast. Something is different. The emotions are all off. I am not alien pride, clinical detachment and otherworldly impulse. I am rage and brimstone and fire, and all the promise of hell. Righteous anger flares under my skin like a second heartbeat and expands beyond the thin walls of my body. I am vengeance incarnate. I am justice. 

I am not myself. I am  _ someone else.  _

_ This… is not  _ ** _my _ ** _ design.  _

A firework lights up the insides of Lisa’s skull as she comes back to the present.  In one infinitesimal moment, she has a single moment of doubt as she considers the blossoming idea in her head. In the next moment, she knows, she just  _ knows  _ the answer couldn’t possibly be anything else.  
  
“You’re not looking for one killer, Director Piggot.”  
  
Piggot looks up from her phone in time to see a bitter smile stretch across Lisa’s face.

“You’re looking for two.”


	2. Chapter 2

“There are two killers?” Piggot asks, incredulous. 

“Yes. Everyone from Winslow was murdered by one person. They were tied in place so they couldn’t move, and the bamboo was grown underneath and _ through _ them. It’s a method of torture used by the Japanese in World War 2. Whoever killed them was furious, too _ . _ There was a sense of _ righteousness _ . They were revenge killings _ . _ It was about making them, whoever _ they _are, suffer.”

Lisa takes a deep breath, trying to push down the surge of pure hate that has come back with her. At least the anger was easier to manage_ . _

“Whoever killed Browbeat didn’t feel a thing for him. He was a… rock to be sculpted. His pain, his life, had no part in their design.”  
Piggot’s knuckles go white at that. “Two psychopaths. Fantastic.” 

“One psychopath. Whoever killed Browbeat is a piece of work, but the one who’s killing the Hitler Youth isn’t a psychopath.” 

Piggot’s eyebrow raises in a perfect imitation of Spock. Lisa knows it would be horribly inappropriate to laugh. (Although laughing would be better then snarling and asking why she gave a damn about who took out the _ trash—) _

“Seriously. Or at least, not the medical definition of one. This is what I’d classify as rather extreme vigilantism. This person, whoever they are, is killing these boys out of some moral outrage.” 

“Is either killer a parahuman?”

“The one who killed the other boys, yes. Browbeat’s...I can’t tell. Not obvious in the reconstruction.”

A grave nod from Piggot. “What do you need now?”

“Time and a computer. Whoever the E88 lit a torch under, it was at least two months ago, possibly longer. Have to, uh. Find out what incident happened to someone connected to Winslow that would be dramatic enough for this to happen.”

“Come with me. We have coffee and computers in the Wards breakroom.” Back into the sterile white halls, a repeat song of shoes clacking against study floors.

“You might be at this for a while,” Piggot warns. “The Empire has been active, lately. Lung’s recent loss against us emboldened them.” 

“Fantastic. Is there a place I can crash once I hit my limit?”

“We’ve purchased an apartment for you. You’ll stay there for the time being, until we… finish setting up your own space here.”

“Thank you, Director.” 

They step into an elevator, which slides down a level, smooth as glass. When the door opens, she’s staring into a small room with couches and a TV, computers sitting on desks that are lightly decorated with paraphernalia. It looks cozy, far more so than the break room up in NYC. 

There are only two people in the room. One is Gallant, who’s standing in front of a coffee machine, bless his heart.

The other is a girl, slightly taller than her, wearing a full-body suit with light armor, predominantly black with jagged silver “lines” spreading out like fractures from where her heart should be, forming a stylised _ G. _A beautiful curly curtain of raven-black hair tumbles down her back, and Lisa is instantly jealous. Her own hair tends to be a frizzled mess which she has to beat into shape. The other Ward has a half-helmet, silver plating protecting her skull and a darkened visor shielding her eyes, but much like Lisa’s own costume, her mouth is left exposed. PR everywhere demanded that some part of the face show, it seems. She’s perching on the armrest of a couch, a book closed in her lap, glancing over at Piggot. 

“Gordian, what are you still doing here? It’s nearly nine in the evening,” Piggot asks as Gordian stands, head tilting as she takes Lisa in. 

“Got a little lost reading. And it’s not like I haven’t slept here before. Besides, I thought Gallant might like some company.” The Ward turns to her partner, and accepts one of the coffee mugs in his hand. 

“It’s always appreciated,” Gallant says, smile clear in his voice. “Gordian and I often spend hours talking about literature.” He comes forward with the second mug of coffee, and Lisa grabs it only just slow enough not to spill it and downs it like it’s a shot glass. Oh, scalding hot, rich caffeine, running like an electric shock through her system. She fucking loves coffee. Her drug addiction satisfied and her tongue scorched, Lisa finally introduces herself.

“Hiya. I’m Oracle, here to solve all your problems. Which computer can I use?”

“Feel free to use the public one,” Gallant says, pointing at one of the desks. “Will you need any help?” Lisa shrugs in response. 

“Having someone just help me sort through the data would be nice. Also just someone who knows Brockton Bay fairly well to help me with some of my theories.”

“I can help,” Gordian offers. “I’m good with speed-reading and I’ve lived in Brockton my whole life. Besides, I know Gallant’s parents will be worried about him.” A frown grows on Gordian’s face. “Speaking of, Director...what have the Wards’ parents been told?”

“Just that Browbeat has gone missing and that they’re being assigned protective details. All things considered, I’m glad you’ve decided to stay at HQ tonight, Gordian. You’re safer.” Piggot checks her watch, and the frown deepens. “I need to get back to work myself. Gallant, you’ll be taken home in a squad car. Gordian, help Oracle in whatever way she needs, but _ please, _get some sleep, both of you.” And with that, Piggot strides out the door. 

Lisa turns to Gordian, aiming for friendly but landing on sardonic.“You just volunteered to do a whole bunch of boring-ass work. Why?”

The smile that’s returned is small, but not lacking in mirth. “Mostly curiosity. At the risk of sounding morbid, murder mysteries were always my favorite gerne.” The smile fades, replaced with the blankness of hesitation. “And...well, I’d like to see how you intend to find the person who… who killed my friend. To make sure you’re looking in the right place.”

“Understandable. Take a seat, my young padawan.” Lisa lifts her visor. “Name’s Lisa, by the way. Lisa Wilbourn.”

The girl smiles once more and unclasps her helmet, revealing a thin, pale face and glittering dark eyes. 

“Taylor Hebert, at your service.” 

* * *

“I’ll admit, I may have… underestimated how much of a slog this was going to be,” Taylor murmurs, scrolling through more reports, the glaze on her eyes and slump in her posture a stellar replication of Lisa’s own exhaustion. “We’ve only been at this for...what, two hours? And we’ve barely put a dent it in it.” Lisa lets out an explosive sigh, rubbing at her eyes.

“To be honest, this is 90% of detective work. Reading and reading and reading, trying to find anything out of the ordinary. I can’t even rule out small crimes, since I have no idea what kind of life situation our murderer was in before she triggered.”

“She? How do you know?” 

“Victims were all teenage boys attending the same highschool. Educated guess.”

“Winslow has gotten dangerous recently,” Taylor murmurs. “Not like it wasn’t before, though.”

“You go to Winslow?” Lisa spins in her chair, eager to find any information that could help narrow the search. “Any details you can give? Anyone who’s been acting strange, out of character? Or missing a lot?”

Taylor shakes her head. “I’m afraid I tested out of high school a while ago. And besides, Winslow isn’t— wasn’t exactly a safe haven. Seriously, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that it’s a recruitment ground for just about every gang in the city. Lots of easy marks and vulnerable people who are easily manipulated, not to mention the staff is...less than altruistic, as I remember them.” Taylor grins, but there’s no humor fueling it. “You’d be better off asking Shadow Stalker.” 

“You two have history?” 

“She used to bully me. Quite badly.”

“Seriously? Was she already a Ward, or…”

“She joined only a little before I did.”

“How did _ that _go over?”

“Oh, there was friction at first, to put it lightly. I used to hate her, and she thought I wasn’t worth spit.”

“And now?”

Taylor shrugs. “Took me a while, but I realized she wasn’t worth hating. I still don’t _ like _her, but I can see the better parts of her now.” Another humorless smile. “She’s still learning how to deal with our new...relationship, and I won’t deny that there’s still some distrust between us. But it’s leagues better than what it used to be.” 

“Well...my apologies about that.”

“Thank you.” Taylor glances at the clock. “If you don’t mind my asking… what is your power, exactly?”

“Oh.” Lisa never likes explaining her power. It’s never enough to make them understand. “Basically, my power takes all information available and recreates previous scenes, or extrapolates future scenarios that are hyper-realistic. Even gives me emotional feedback.”

Taylor’s head tilts to one side, absorbing the information. 

“So...you experience dying?”

_ I wish. _

“I...most of the time, I end up seeing and feeling things from the killer’s point of view.” 

“Ah.”

Here it comes. Taylor will politely excuse herself and then avoid Lisa for as long as she’s here, the exact same damn thing that happens with everyone who learns what she can do, save for Lily and even _ she _doesn’t like talking about it, and Lisa is always going to be a freak even amongst freaks—

“That’s incredible.”

And she’ll never...huh?

“That can’t be easy to experience. How long have you been a Ward?”

“Um.” Lisa’s finer brain functions aren't working properly. “Two years, give or take?”

“You’ve been forcing yourself to experience the way murderers think for two years?”

“Yes?” Taylor’s reactions are throwing her completely off-kilter. 

Taylor gives Lisa the most earnest smile yet, and it’s… surprisingly dazzling for such a reserved person. “You’re amazing, Lisa Wilbourn. I can’t imagine doing that for even one day.”

Lisa really doesn’t know how to take that. Fortunately, Taylor keeps talking. “I mean, really. Being a Ward is difficult enough, but what you do… I think you’re incredibly brave, subjecting yourself to all of this.”

Abortabort_ abortabortabort- _

“T-thanks.” Clear the throat, move on. “We should probably get back to work.”

“I suppose we should. Oh, to make things fair: I have the power to see the weak points of any object, as well as enhanced reflexes.”

“Huh. That must be useful.” Lisa can already think of several dozen applications for that, even outside of a fight.

“It certainly is.” 

Another hour passes, with a few possible hits that ultimately proves futile. 

“I think it would help if I knew more what I was looking for,” Taylor says, taking what must be her third coffee. “And shouldn’t we be looking up Empire reports that are related to Arcadia, given… given?”

Lisa shakes her head. “No. Browbeat’s killer isn’t the same one who killed all these other kids.”

“What?” 

“When I reconstructed the murders, it was immediately obvious that Browbeat’s killer was different from the rest. For one thing, no obvious usage of parahuman abilities. The other… the emotions were all off. The person who killed the other boys felt justified in killing them, about making them pay for whatever they had done. Browbeat’s murderer didn’t give a damn about him. He was entirely irrelevant to the process. Was more about the final result, the… the artwork then any personal suffering.” Lisa suddenly realizes that maybe she shouldn’t speak so bluntly about the way her friend died, but Taylor takes it in stride, only the most minute details giving away her shock. Lisa has the sudden premonition that this isn’t the first time she’s lost someone. 

“You can tell all that from just seeing the body?” 

“Well, re-living it makes it pretty distinct,” Lisa grumbles, rubbing at her eyes. She really doesn’t want to get tired enough for her control to start slipping. “Unless other powers are involved or there’s just not a whole lot of distinguishing characteristics to pick up, my power is pretty damn accurate.”

“I see…so you can understand how they think? How they feel?” Taylor’s dark eyes glimmer with curiosity, and Lisa wishes she felt the same way about her own power. 

“To a certain extent, yeah. The more information I have and the more I see, the easier it gets to think like them, and hopefully predict them.” Lisa looks at the clock again. “God, it’s nearly twelve. We’re not gonna find anything else tonight. I’m gonna go figure out where my apartment is.” 

“Alright. I suppose I should head home as well. I’ll see if I can get Shadow Stalker to pay attention to anything amiss at Winslow.”

“Every little thing helps. Thank you, Taylor.”

“Anytime, Lisa.” Taylor says her name with a warmth that makes Lisa feel far happier than it should.

“G’night.” She waves and then they part ways, and Lisa finds herself in a PRT car for the last time tonight, which drops her off with her luggage and a key in front of an apartment building. She finds the correct door and steps inside, barely even looking around the room long enough to find the bed, collapsing onto it. She then remembers how uncomfortable it is to sleep in costume and goes to change, haphazardly unpacking and throwing sleepwear on. She falls onto the bed once more, and this time, she doesn’t get up. 

She wakes up to the screeching noise of her phone alarm and staggers out of bed, the world dim and blurring. Her arms itch, and she can’t figure out why. Sheets, perhaps? Shower. Find shower. The kiss of the warm water against her skin is like a comforting blanket, and her painful exhaustion fades into a much more manageable drowsiness. She scratches at her arms, washing out her hair with the tiny bottles of shampoo the place came with, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. As she does, her gaze drifts downward, and the water’s running red. She looks at her arms, and they are torn, shredded things, and through the bright lines her nails left on her arms, bamboo is beginning to sprout, pushing through flesh to burst to life, vibrantly green. She can feel the rest beginning to grow, on her back, her legs, her chest and she’s running, stumbling out of the shower but it’s too late and the plant bursts through her heart—

Lisa wakes up. 

She waits a good hour before getting in the shower. This time, the sensation of bamboo blossoming under her skin is only a phantom. 

It is 8:05 A.M, and she is striding into the PRT building once more, looking forward to a day of scrolling though more reports of horrific acts of violence. Once she enters the building, she makes a beeline for the break room and the coffee machine. To her horror, there’s already someone waiting there. 

Even she, as secluded as she can sometimes get from the world of capery, has heard about Armsmaster. 

“Oracle.” He gives her a slight nod, what’s visible of his stubbled face grave. “You’re the one working on Browbeat’s murder?” 

Straight to business. Better than false pleasantries, she supposes.

“That’s right. Flew down from New York last night.”

“And how many murder investigations have you handled?” Lisa immediately bristles, spine going taut. The question was devoid of any real tone, but Lisa knows what he is _ really _ asking: _ Are you sure you’re up to this, little girl? _ Because that’s what they always ask when they look at her, the woman not even a third of their age who’s a few pounds too light and has shadows swimming under her eyes. Like she’s a fucking teacup, ready to break, either dashing herself against the floor or slicing open anyone who gets too close. The PRT at least treats her like she is useful. The police either hated her (glares from the senior detectives who were annoyed that a teenager’s opinion was being held in higher esteem, stealing their glory, and none of them got that Lisa didn’t want to be here either. She would talk but none of them would _ listen, _ and then she could feel the whispers of whoever she’d let inside swell, and imagined all of them with steak knives in their throats before she forced her power to stop _ guessing, _ ) or they just ignored her (the other Wards in New York, doing their damndest to act like she’s not in the room, whispering comments in the mess hall, awkwardly asking how she is and then running away, rumors spreading amongst the staff about poor little Lisa, who cries herself to sleep and looks at dead bodies all day.)

“I don’t have an exact number, but I’ve been doing this for two years, give or take a few months so… a lot.”

“And what is your clearage rate?” 

Oh, _ fuck you. _She glares up at him. 

“One hundred percent, when they listen to me.” 

“Good.” He gestures at the computer she was working on last night, which is… up and running? Has he been taking notes on her investigation. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were running through Empire reports and crossreferncing them with the Winslow enrollment list.”

“I was, yes.” Her tone is about as warm and fuzzy as the arctic, and she really shouldn’t be talking to a superior officer like this but—  
“

I sorted out most of the smaller crimes, given that you’re looking for something more dramatic. Focused on incident reports with higher fatalities and injury counts.”

Oh. That… probably saved her hours of work. 

“Thank you,” she mumbles, refusing to feel guilty about getting angry.

“Of course. If you need anything, come to me or Director Piggot, especially if it involves the other Wards. Keep up the good work.” 

And with that, he’s striding out of the break room, towards...wherever. 

Okay. Breathe. In, out…

Get to work. 

* * *

Taylor shows up only a few minutes later, satchel swung over her shoulder. She looks well-rested and happy to see Lisa, both of which are experiences Lisa cannot relate to. 

“Good morning, Lisa.”

“Mornin, Taylor. What’s with the bag?”

“Lunch, of course.” She sets it down on a couch and goes over to join Lisa at the computer station.

“Isn’t there a cafeteria?”

“Oh, I don’t use it. Got too used to home cooked meals to go back to grease-coated food, so now I just bring my own food with me.

“Oh. Mom and dad pretty generous?”

Taylor’s mirth vanishes like snow on a midsummer’s day, and Lisa instantly knows where this is going. 

“I’m afraid not. My parents… passed away a few years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Taylor smiles again, this one smaller and sadder. “Thank you. But it’s okay. I’ve learned to take care of myself— cooking became something of a hobby for me. Had to do something to keep myself from going nuts in that house.”

“Oh? My friend’s been trying to learn how to cook, back up in New York.”

“Perhaps we could trade tips.” 

“She’d like that.” Lisa turns back to the computer, reading through more reports. “Any luck with… um, what’s her face?”

“Shadow Stalker? I shot her a text, and her response was… well, she’s not going to do it on _ my _request.” 

“Okay. I’ll ask her if I see her.” Words, words, words. Tiny black font on glaring white, clinically describing how the Empire has been preying on minorities. The words spark a distant anger in Lisa, and this time she’s not sure if it’s hers or someone else’s rage. She distantly wonders what it says about the human race that with the advent of powers, all of the worst kinds of people came crawling out of the woodworks (herself included, a girl who’s more ghost than human.)

Time crawls as she and Taylor both plow through reports, looking for something, anything out of the ordinary. Most of the crimes they’re seeing were perpetrated by the kids who attended Winslow, but only two of the boys that were killed are showing up on the same ones. Ideally, the crime would be one all five were present for, but that wasn’t looking likely. 

This isn’t working. She needs more to go off of. 

“Damn it. I need to go back to the morgue. Where do I get a key card?”

“Best remind Director Piggot to give you one, but we can use mine,” Taylor says, rising with her. It doesn’t take long to get back to that cold and sterile room, and now she’s staring at six bodies again, Browbeat’s corpse having joined the rest. Taylor looks down at her fellow Ward’s body and turns her eyes away, expression grave. Lisa feels a flash of guilt before her power washes that away, in favor of— 

_ Tick. _

_ Tick. _

_ Tick. _

Hatred. I walk forwards and stare at the gagged and bound boy, fire churning in my gut. He’s desperate. Terrified. I can see it in his eyes, darting around in every direction, the way his body shakes even in chains. I find this immensely gratifying. He will suffer as I have suffered. 

I place the pots beneath him, making sure he can _ watch. _ I want him to know how he’s going to die. I need him to watch his death coming and know that he can’t do anything about it. This is _ vengeance _ , not revenge. I am just doing what should have been done a long time ago. With this, I strike not just at him, but at all his infectious kind. I will tear out the cancer by the roots. Something _ pulses _in my being, and the seeds begin to grow… 

Lisa staggers back, grasping for the wall. 

“The… the first killer,” she gasps, waiting for the bodies to go back to normal, eyes and lungs filled with vivid green that she knows isn’t real but she can _ smell _ the foliage and dirt and blood. “It’s not just personal. It’s _ ideological. _ This is… this is a war declaration.” Her throat is full of copper and crimson. Her heart feels like if it beats any faster it’ll burst right out of her chest along with the seeds. “I…” The world is still spinning.  
“Lisa, I think you should sit down.” Taylor’s voice comes from...somewhere. Lisa closes her eyes and forcibly grabs the clock hand, stilling it. She opens her eyes to the present day, with a concerned Taylor staring at her.

“I’m fine.” She swallows down the bile (and the blood, so fresh and rich and _ stop—) _and gives Taylor a small smile that feels so fake on her face. “Just some backlash. It happens. We need to get back to the reports.”

Taylor merely nods and leads her back out of the room. “What did you see?”

“More evidence that there are two killers. Find the first one, find the second.”

“You think they’re connected?” Lisa shakes her head. 

“The bodies of the first five were found dead, with the bamboo _ grown _through them as the method of death. Additionally, they were chained up, forced to watch as the plant slowly grew and killed them. The historical method is one of the ways she’s trying to disguise herself. Browbeat’s killer used artificial bamboo to stake him in the air, like a… like a pig on a roast. There’s superficial similarities. Could be that they know each other, could be that Browbeat’s killer was hoping to pass their murder off as someone else’s, but if we catch the first, we can maybe learn more about the second.” 

They’re back at the computers, and Lisa stares at _ Empire Eighty-Eight _ before searching on little more than a spark of an idea for _ synagogue _. 

A name pops up in both reports immediately. 

One Garcia Asher, mother of Charlotte Asher, a sophomore at Winslow. 


	3. Chapter 3

Taylor drives a stick shift, which just _fits_. Lisa couldn’t say why. As Taylor navigates through the grid-like streets of Brockton Bay, Lisa gets her first real good look at the city. Compared to New York, it’s… lacking. As they leave the Boardwalk, skyscrapers and malls and posh-looking shops are left behind. The change is dramatic. The streets slowly become rougher and dirtier, trash beginning to line up on the sidewalks, the grass quite literally not greener on the other side, the towering buildings uptown replaced by worn, little houses and cramped apartment complexes. A dirty mirror of New York's Hell's Kitchen.

“It’s been like this for as long as I can remember,” Taylor says, guessing eerily well at what’s running through Lisa’s head. “The Boardwalk and its surrounding areas are the only real safe parts of the city anymore, and even there, we’re losing ground to the Empire. The ABB sticks to the docks most of the time, but whenever Lung makes a move, it’s big. They’ve been quiet since we gave him a good licking, but that just means the next blow will be even bigger. Coil’s a ghost, and the Merchants slither around and slip through our fingers. The city is a powder-keg about to explode.”

“I doubt the serial-killings of E88 recruits have lightened the load.”

“No. We’ve been anticipating a response from the Empire, but they haven’t made a move yet. I think they’re waiting until we name a suspect.”

“Well, let's get this done before they catch a second wind, then.”

The address on file leads them to a small, quaint little house lying in the middle of the block, barely two-story. Charming house, considering she’s come here to find a killer. 

The doorbell rings, off-note and discordant, and the door is opened after a few moments to reveal a dark-haired, plainly dressed woman in her mid-forties, leaning on a cane, surprise clear at seeing their costumes. Lisa gives her most winning smile, which feels horribly unnatural on her face. 

“Hello, Ms. Asher. I’m Oracle. I’m a Ward who was transferred here recently, and I assume you’ve heard of Gordian?” Taylor gives her own, much more convincing smile, pearly whites gleaming. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. May we come in?”

“Ah—yes, yes of course.” The door swings open, and the lady of the house urges them inside. As soon as they cross the threshold, it’s swung closed...and locked. Taylor catches Lisa’s eyes, a clear question radiating from her expression. Lisa shrugs. No way to tell if Ms. Asher has ill intent or if she’s simply doing the smart thing in a city as dangerous as Brockton Bay. “Can, um. Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?” 

"Oh, please don’t go to the trouble. I doubt this will take too long.” Lisa strolls into the living room, taking all the details into account. Lots of pictures, all of them family photos. Several of them have a man, bearded but well groomed with a wide smile and a pleasant face. That would be the late Mr. Asher, Lisa supposes.

“O-okay. I… how can I help you?”

“Do you mind if we take a seat, Ms. Asher?”

“Of course not, please.”

Lisa flops down on the couch. “I imagine you’re wondering what two Wards are doing at your door.”

“I’m curious, yes.” Ms. Asher slowly lowers herself into a chair, leaning heavily on her cane. “Is Charlotte alright? Has something happened to her?”

“Do you have reason to believe that something has happened to Charlotte?”

“No more reason than any other Jewish woman in this city.” Lisa winces in sympathy even as she wonders if that was an intentional deflection. 

“We’re not here about your daughter, Ms. Asher, although we’d like to talk to her as well. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about the attack that happened on a synagogue a few months ago?” 

Her eyes immediately flick down and then to the side, zeroing in on one of the photos before coming back around to her shoes. She visibly drains, face falling and muscles going soft. She looks hollow, empty. Wounded. 

“O-oh. Um. I already spoke to the police about that.”

“I know, and I’m terribly sorry to bring up painful memories, but I’m afraid I have to ask you to give me a recounting of the incident.” Ms. Asher’s posture suddenly goes rigid once more as she looks into Lisa’s eyes with obvious fear.

“Does… does this have anything to do with those murders that have been happening recently?” 

“It does, yes. I’m spearheading the investigation for the PRT now.”

“Do—do Wards typically handle things like this?”

“Not typically, no,” Taylor chimes in, perfectly charming. “But my dear friend Oracle here is well suited to it.”

As weird (pleasant) as it is to hear a girl she’s barely known for a day describe Lisa as her friend, she has a job to do. “Don’t worry, Ms. Asher, I assure you I’m qualified to do this. And yes, this is about that.”

“I… I’m not a suspect, am I?”

“No,” Lisa says, completely honestly. The clear leg injury alone would have made the kidnappings extremely difficult, and her responses thus far have shown none of the fury or paranoia that Lisa would expect of their target. “Just one many door-to-door interviews, Ms. Asher. We’re just being thorough, is all. Now, if you please?” Lisa brings out a small wad of paper and pen.

Ms. Asher blinks and takes a few seconds to compose herself. “Well… um, we were all finishing up for the day, a few had already begun to leave, and Charlotte was wondering about dinner—and then there was a horrible sound, like stone screaming, and then… then the roof started collapsing. We—Joseph pushed me and Charlotte out of the way…” Ms. Asher takes a deep breath, hands trembling violently. “And then he was just…” She swallows again. “Gone. And the bit of rock that took him also robbed me of my ability to walk on my own two feet.” She taps her left leg, knuckles white on her cane. “It pinned me to the ground, and poor Charlotte was so desperately trying to get it off but… she is a small girl and she didn’t have the strength. She still blames herself for it.” She gives a shrug that’s more of a shudder. “We were fortunate enough to make it out alive. Others…”

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Lisa murmurs, now very much wishing she had asked for coffee. “How are you doing now?”

“Thank you.” Ms. Asher’s voice is wooden. She’s as tired of hearing that as Lisa is saying it, clearly. “After… well, we’re trying to keep moving. It’s difficult for me to get around as easily as I used to. Charlotte’s really stepped up. Cooking meals, helping around the house, getting the groceries… I only wish she’d smile more. She’s become such a serious girl.”

“You’ve both been through a terrible ordeal, Ms. Asher,” Taylor murmurs, reaching over to place her hand on the woman’s. “It would be unfair to both of you to expect there to be no change. You will both need time to adapt to the new dynamic.” Taylor’s voice thrums with an undercurrent of emotion. Lisa remembers what she said about her parents, and then wonders if she’s also parroting lines from therapists. 

“Ah, thank you dear. You’re both very kind.” She looks up at Lisa, very clearly exhausted from the recounting. “Is that enough?”

“More than enough, Ms. Asher. I hate to ask this of you, but do you mind if we come back when Charlotte’s out of school so we can ask her some things?”

“Why?”

“She goes to Winslow. We’re hoping that she might have noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Well, if it’s urgent I can call her—”

“Oh, no need. We have a lot more work to do, and there’s no sense in pulling her out at noon. Could you give us your contact information?” 

“Oh—okay.” Lisa smiles and apologizes again as she receives the slip of paper, quickly leaving the house, eager to leave the woman before she can start mirroring her grief. Taylor follows her after a few moments, no doubt reassuring the woman better than Lisa could.

“Well?” Taylor asks as she steps back into the car, bringing up her phone and tapping away, likely notifying Piggot that they were returning. “Is it her?”

“Either she’s not our suspect or she’s a damn good actor. I won’t be able to say for sure until I meet with the daughter. Still, they’re the only family that’s got the right profile. Let’s confirm it’s not them before moving on.” 

“Very well.”

The drive back is short and swift, but Lisa’s imagination once again plays tricks on her, and she can’t help but see Browbeat’s fogged eyes staring back at her in the glass, mouth gaped open in a question he never got to ask. Lisa’s arms prickle once more as bamboo writhes beneath the surface of her skin. 

When she gets back to the common room, there’s far too many people in it. Gallant’s the only one she recognizes, silver armor distinct. There are three other boys, one in white armor and the other in two in red (although one has merely a crimson visor, a cloud of brown hair atop his head), and...a girl who can’t be older than 12 in a green and white ensemble.

This, Lisa guesses, would be the rest of the Wards team. As soon as she steps into the room, whatever conversation was going on dies as all eyes swivel to her. The boy in red steps forward, eyes locked on Lisa’s mask.

“Oracle. My name is Aegis. I’m the leader of the Wards team. A pleasure to meet you.” The hand he offers is firm. 

“Likewise,” Lisa lies. “Is this to be my meet-and-greet?”

“Can’t blame us for being curious about the new girl,” the one in white chimes in, crossing his arms. “After all, they shipped you down here pretty fast.” There’s a suggestion in those words that Lisa refuses to acknowledge. She can already guess at the ugly, bitter feelings he’s been nursing.

“Clock,” Aegis says, his tone reproachful. “Clock” throws his hands up.

“Look, Browbeat is nowhere to be found and they had us all under house arrest yesterday. A guy puts two and two together.” 

“It’s okay, Aegis,” Lisa says, stepping towards the Ward in white. “I don’t expect to be anyone’s favorite right now. I’m here to do my job and get justice for your friend. I’ll be gone after that.” She can’t see his face through the reflective plate of armor, but she’s pretty sure he’s holding her gaze. Eventually, he turns away, arms crossed.

“Yeah, well… you do that.” 

The young girl in the dress sighs and walks up to Lisa, holding out her hand. “Vista. Unlike my teammate, I think it’s nice to meet you.” The tone is crisp and a frankly adorable attempt at being professional, which is...heartbreaking, under the circumstances. Lisa returns the handshake.

“Nice to meet you as well, Vista.” She nods and drops her hand. The other boy in red comes forward, more hesitant. 

“Kid Win,” he offers, and his hand is given as quickly as it’s retracted.

“Hello. And Gallant, thanks again for the coffee last night,” Lisa says, trying to salvage the atmosphere somewhat.

“No problem, Oracle. How are you doing?”

Lisa shrugs. “Made some progress, came back to follow up on a hunch. Where’s Shadow Stalker?”

Aegis’s eyes go cold. “Why do you want to know?”

“I need to ask her some questions about Winslow.”

The Ward captain turns to Taylor, who has a carefully blank expression on her face, what’s visible of it. 

“Gordian, you know better than to give away another Ward’s identity like that.”

“Oh,” Taylor says, in a tone so dry and devoid of emotion, you could have searched for days for remorse and found none. “It must have slipped my mind. My apologies.” Lisa suppressed a smirk. So Taylor wasn't _that _over their shared history. 

Aegis stares sternly at her for a moment before dropping it. “At any rate, she won’t be out of school for a while. Sorry.”

Lisa shrugs. “It’s fine. In that case, someone show me to Armsmaster’s lab, if he’s still here.”

“He is,” Kid Win chimes in. “Caught him coming in as I showed up.”

“Great,” Taylor says. “Aegis, do you mind showing her the way? I was hoping I could reheat the lunch I prepared.”

The mood instantly brightens, Kid Win and Vista breaking out into grins. Aegis sighs, but there is no malice in it. “Sure thing, Gordian. Oracle, if you will?” Lisa follows Aegis into the elevator once more as the doors close shut.

“I’m sorry about Clockblocker,” he says as they go up. “We’re all a little on edge right now, and he’s… he was trying hard to get Browbeat to open up.”

“It’s fine, Aegis. I’ve been running homicide for two years, I’ve dealt with my fair share of traumatized relations. Grief does things to your head.” 

“You’re remarkably… matter of fact about all this,” he notes. Lisa shrugs.

“After a while, you kind of have to be, doing what I do. Otherwise it’ll get to you.” _More than it already has, at any rate. _

“I see. Well, if Clock or anyone else on the team gives you grief, come to me and I’ll do what I can to take care of it.”

“Thanks.”

The doors slide back open, and Aegis leads her down the hallways once more. “How long do you expect the investigation to go on?” 

“No real way to tell, Aegis. Right now I’m playing off of hunches and instinct, but the suspect pool is rather enormous. Pretty much anyone who’s ever been hurt by the E88 is a suspect. The killer’s outraged at their existence, but so is everyone who’s not bigoted.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Aegis growls. “If we had more manpower we’d be able to seriously push back against the Empire, but they have us outnumbered and outgunned. We can’t afford to make any serious plays without risking a fight that would get damn nasty.”

Lisa nods, filtering in the information and taking it into account. “The killer is frustrated with the PRT. Angry that the Empire has been allowed to continue. They’ve started with recruits from the Winslow pool, but they’ll continue up the ranks unless we catch them.” 

“I have faith you will. Piggot shared some details about you with me, and I have to say, I’m impressed. You’ve got a very different job from mine, but it looks like you’re damn good at it.”

“I have to be.” 

And with that, they’re at the door to Armsmaster’s lab. Aegis knocks twice, swift and brief, and it only takes a few moments for the man himself to appear at the door. “Aegis, Oracle. What is it?”

“You said I could come to you if I needed help. Well, I need a tech-related favor.”

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Aegis says. “Good luck, Oracle. Armsmaster, Sir.” The door slides shut as he turns and walks away. 

“What kind of _tech-related _favor do you need?” Armsmaster asks as he guides Lisa deeper into his lab, machines and computers giving off a faint blue light as they pass. 

“I need you to find where someone could purchase bamboo seeds. The range would be about two months back, and focus on a large quantity of them. And then I’ll need who purchased them, of course.”

“I can do that. It might take a while, given that I’ll need to request permission from Piggot to look at records like that.”

“Okay. I need to grab a bite to eat, anyway. Thank you, Armsmaster.”

“Of course.”

And then he’s moving, fingers flying across the keyboard. After a moment, Lisa leaves the Tinker’s lab and eventually manages to find her way back to the common room. The first thing she notices is the smell: cooked meat, heady and delicious and thick. Then she sees the dishes laid out on the table, each lined with six potstickers, dripped in a light sauce and fried to perfection.

“Ah, Oracle, you’re just in time,” Taylor chimes in, grinning. She’s removed her helmet, and her dark eyes are alive. “I thought it would be nice if I made lunch for everyone, so… here.” 

“Is this a special occasion?” Lisa asks, unsure if she’s wanted by the rest of the Wards. Kid Win smiles at her, already reaching for a plate and chopsticks.

“Taylor does this, every once in a while. The benefits of having an aspiring chef on the team.”

“I’m no chef,” Taylor murmurs, clearly pleased, “but I try my best. Had to get good at something, after all. Please, join us.”

Lisa shrugs and takes a seat on the couch, reaching for a nearby plate and chopsticks. Fortunately, she’s gotten Japanese takeout with Lily before, so it only takes her two tries to firmly grasp the bit of wrapped pork and bite into it. It is _delicious, _the meat suplicant and soft in her mouth, spices mixing together to create a miniature buffet of flavor. She hasn't had food this good in...well, ever. 

“Taylor,” she asks, setting down the plate after having taken the time to appreciate the excellent food. “Can you brew coffee?”

“I can, yes.”

“You’re my new favorite person,” Lisa states. “I’m keeping you as my personal assistant for as long as I’m here.”

“Hey,” Gallant says, mocking offense. “I thought I was your favorite coffee boy.”

“Not if her coffee is this good. This is fucking amazing.”

“It really is,” Vista agrees, greedily digging in. “So much better than cafeteria food. You’re spoiling us, Taylor.”

Taylor takes all the compliments in stride, glowing with pride. “I do my best.”

The conversation goes on about Taylor and her cooking adventures, and Lisa mostly watches and listens as the Wards fall into an easy rhythm of conversation. Time passes swiftly until the elevator _dings _and it’s Armsmaster stepping out, a folder in hand. He wordlessly hands it to Lisa, who flips it open, easily going down the list of purchases until she finds the name she expected to:

**GARCIA ASHER AUTHORIZED PURCHASE AT LOWES HOME IMPROVEMENT STORE 06/13/11 DEBIT**

“So it _was_ Garcia?” Taylor asks, staring down at the file, food forgotten.

“Nope. Don’t you remember? She said _Charlotte _had taken care of all the shopping. And this is still just circumstantial evidence, if suspicious.” Lisa glances up at the clock. Damn, past three already? “Come on, let’s head back to the Asher house and see if anything comes from interviewing Charlotte.” 

* * *

The house doesn’t look any different when they first pull up, still small and quaint and utterly unremarkable just like the rest of the houses on the block. Only a few moments after they ring the doorbell does the entrance swing open, with Ms. Asher welcoming them in once more. The repetition ends when a voice rings from the stairwell: “Mom, who’s—” The short, somewhat round dark-haired girl stops short when she sees the two Wards standing in her house. Panic explodes across Charlotte’s face, and Lisa’s heart sinks. 

“Hello, Charlotte,” Lisa says. “I’m Oracle, the Ward who’s leading an investigation into the recent string of murders. We have a few questions we’d like to ask you.” 

“I, um. Okay?” Charlotte's arms move, unsure of where to go until resting in her sweater pocket. “I don’t know a whole lot about that. I try to keep a low profile at school.” Lisa decides to take a gamble.

“Why did you purchase the seeds, Charlotte?” 

Charlotte’s face goes very carefully blank, eyes burning as they snap back to Lisa. 

There’s a few moments of silence as Charlotte stares at Lisa like she just called for her execution. And then her hands are moving, throwing something to the ground and vibrant green bamboo bursts from the seeds, instantly growing a barrier between the Wards and the murderer. Lisa only dimly registers Ms. Asher screaming as she dives for the stairs, trying to break down the bamboo, but the damn plant is stronger than she expected and Charlotte is going to _get away— _

Taylor rushes forwards, a blur of black, and with one surgical kick a bamboo pole snaps in half and Lisa just manages to squeeze through, bolting up the stairs with her gun drawn, yelling at Taylor to call for backup.

"Charlotte!” She slams against the door, but it doesn’t budge. She must have grown more bamboo, damn it. “Listen to me! You don’t have to do this! We can help you!” The door isn’t moving. She’s going to have to kick it down. She raises her foot and slams it against the pressure point, right to the side of where the lock is mounted. The wood splinters and now with a _bang _the door swings open and… 

Charlotte’s kneeling, her head nearly touching the floor. She’s muttering something under her breath, palms cupped. 

“Charlotte?” Lisa whispers, lowering her gun.

“_Shema yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad. Shema yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad,_” Charlotte breathes, the words strange and unfamiliar to Lisa. Some kind of Jewish prayer? 

“Charlotte, please put your hands behind your head.” Bringing her pistol back up. “No sudden movements.” Those words seem to break Charlotte out of her repetitions, slowly raising her face to reveal a tear-ridden expression, twisted by rage and despair. Her eyes are bloodshot, bright and blazing with emotion_._ Lisa has to fight to keep her feet and a grip on her power as the clock threatens to slide back, desperate to show her how deeply she can sink into Charlotte’s head, so potent is her hate. Lisa’s slipping, blending. Being so close to her is causing her to empathize without meaning to. Her insides churn in sync with Charlotte’s, her heart beats at the same intensity. 

“They are killing us,” she hisses, eyes alight from within, like her soul was on fire, “I will not let them turn me into a victory by my arrest.” 

“Charlotte—”

Her hands part to reveal a seed.

Lisa lunges.

“_No!” _

The spear of green bursts through Charlotte’s chest and out her back, arterial blood painting the walls. She’s dead before Lisa reaches her body. She checks her pulse anyway. Charlotte is already gone. Gone, gone, gone, along with any possible information she could have about Browbeat’s killer. Damn it, damn it, _damn it. _

Lisa stays there for a moment, fully drinking in her failure before moving to—

Charlotte’s hands snap up and seize her own in a death grip, dragging her back down to kneel with her. Blood’s running from her mouth in a great river, eyes _burning_. The bamboo is still growing, growing, snaking through the room, strangling the sunlight streaming through the window as leaves blossom and swell, dripping blood so bright and clear. 

“You have to kill them all,” Charlotte growls, death having transformed her into something inhuman. “Every last one of them.” Her nails easily sink into Lisa’s arms like claws, more bamboo sprouting from the gouges. Lisa tries to speak but she _can’t, _because she can feel her lungs filling up with green, flowers blooming inside as her mouth begins to fill with crimson— 

“LISA!” 

Lisa tries to scream on empty lungs and just scrambles for air instead, finding herself sinking into Taylor’s grip. Charlotte’s body is still kneeling and speared, unmoving. What the fuck was that? A hallucation? Her power going wild?

“Lisa?” Taylor asks, holding her more gently than anyone ever has. Lisa still can’t find the right words. Charlotte is dead and it’s all her fault and she can’t get away from that. Slowly, she lets Taylor guide her down the stairs and out to the sea of flashing lights.

She doesn’t remember getting in the backseat of a PRT car, but then she’s sinking into the welcoming black of the cushions, and then she tries very hard not to think at all.

* * *

Piggot stares at her, eyes heavy. Lisa’s in her office, an empty cup of coffee in her hand. She was given time to catch a nap, at least, and during said nap they’d slipped the card for the PRT therapist in her pocket. She’d thrown it in the nearest trash can along with the ten other cups before responding to the summons.

“So,” she eventually says, having been silent for almost the entire duration of Lisa’s report. “A seventeen year old girl killed all those boys.”

“All the Nazis, yes. She was trying to save her city.”

Piggot nods gravely. “Aren’t we all.” Lisa bows her head, trying to find the right words.

“I’m sorry, Director.”

Piggot frowns. “What for, Oracle?”

“Charlotte’s dead because of me. If I had gotten to her faster I could have stopped her from… from…”

“Oracle.” Piggot leans across the desk, as much as she can. “You found her in _one day._ That’s a miracle in and of itself. Her death is not on you. Charlotte chose to kill herself.”

“I could have saved her,” Lisa says, so quiet she’s almost whispering. “I could have talked her down. I was already so close to her.”

“Could have, would have, should have,” Piggot murmurs. “I find those words don’t mean much, in the long run. What’s done is done. We have to decide how to move forward now. Browbeat’s killer is still at large, according to to you.”

“Yes.” 

“Then why are you still here?” Piggot says it with a smile, and Lisa realizes that’s her trying to be encouraging. “Go catch our killer, Oracle.”

'Yes ma’am.”

“Dismissed.”

Lisa walks out of the director’s office, and Charlotte walks out with her, still bleeding, still growing green from her skin. The tips of the bamboo leaves scratch against the roof even as the dead girl leaves bright crimson footprints on the white tile floor.

_Your fault. _

An act of will and a push against her power sends the hallucation back where it belongs, a folder in the vast library of her imagination. 

Lisa eventually finds her way back to the break room, and Taylor’s there waiting for her, a book in her lap. She looks up and immediately rushes over to Lisa. “Hey. Are you…” 

“Okay? Yeah,” Lisa lies. “Piggot’s not firing me, either. Thanks for uh. Helping me. I was a little out of it.”

“No problem at all, Lisa. What happens now?”

Lisa shrugs. “I promised her I’d find Browbeat’s killer, so… I’m staying until I do.”

Taylor smiles wide at that. “And you’ll have my help until you do.” Taylor extends her hand. “Partners?” 

“Partners,” Lisa agrees, firmly shaking her hand. “Let’s get to work.” 


	4. Chapter 4

I have spent several days and nights, planning, preparing. Caged lighting burns in my veins, and despite my best efforts, my heart begins to beat itself against the walls of my chest. I see him walk from his home, dragging out his trash can. The night is quiet and still, just how I like it. 

I come at him from behind. He never sees me coming. I reach up and _ squeeze _, choking the life from him. He doesn’t know who I am and I don’t need him to. I just need him to die. Once he is, I take him back to where my toys are. It doesn’t take long for his brain to stutter and fail, deprived of the precious flow of blood it needs, and he transforms from a living, breathing man into a limp object in my hands. He is better off for it. Alive, he was an irritant. Now he can aggravate me no longer. 

I carve him up with power tools, experience and confidence making my lines precise and clean. Saws and the like have been polished and sharpened to cut through flesh and bone with ease. The cleaving is the most important part. If it’s done incorrectly, then all of this will have been for nothing. If it’s done _ wrong, _then I’ll be deprived of the peace I so desperately need. Eventually, he has been prepared and sorted in the right way, the perfect way. Now it is time to move to the final site.

I slide the shovel into the ground, easily moving the dry earth. This will take time and patience, but I have plenty of both. Hardly anyone ever comes to this section of the woods. I dig and dig and dig, and slowly I carve out a circle, as perfect as I can make, into the earth. 

Now comes the fun part. I go back to my car and retrieve the body. Or what’s left of it. 

I carefully arrange the body like pieces of a puzzle, forming a perfect circle made of arms and legs and guts. The upper body and head are the only parts that have remained intact, as they make the centerpiece of the pattern I have created. 

This is my design. 

Lisa’s consciousness comes back to her own body, and she gratefully accepts the thermos of coffee that Taylor hands her. It’s dark, rich, and totally energizing, and it’s almost enough to wash away the shards of the killer’s psyche that’s already become etched upon the grey matter inside her skull. Immediately, the world becomes uglier as the killer’s obsession with cleanliness and patterns overlays upon her eyes. Now, the random, chaotic, _ revolting _ mess of a crime scene is sickening to look at. Policemen bumbling about, no unity, uniforms lacking crisp lines. The yellow tape haphazardly strung across the area, a glaring flaw in the world. Red and blue lights flashing out of sync, no tempo or rhythm to make them bearable. All of these details come with a sudden and _ overwhelming _urge to fix the impurities. Solve their various flaws and failings with swift and sudden violence and silence their vapid breathing, their ignorant fumbling. How can they bare being so base? Someone really ought to stop them. 

There’s a hand on her shoulder, and Lisa has a flash-fire surge of panic and terror and _ how _ ** _dare _ ** _ you touch me, you fucking filthy— _

Taylor’s concerned face drags her back into her own skin, and Lisa does her best to bury the burning sensation that physical contact had brought forth. _ I am Lisa Wilbourn, _she chants in her head, once more grabbing the clock hand in an attempt to make the after-effects go away. 

“So. What’s the story with this one, Lisa?”

Lisa rubs her eyes and takes another swig of coffee. She still isn’t entirely used to the idea of Taylor being her...partner? Assistant? Teammate? (Friend?) “Some poor kids found the body, thanks to their dog. Guy tried to dig shallower to compensate for how much area he needed for his art piece.”

“Not exactly stellar art.” Taylor murmurs, watching the pieces be unearthed entirely and packaged, sent off to the morgue now that Lisa has done her job. “I prefer Picasso.” Lisa snorts at that, greedily drinking in Taylor’s coffee. It really is sinfully good. She’s already addicted and refuses to go back to the machine.

“I’m more of a Dali woman myself.”

“I knew you had culture.” Taylor rubs her arms, dutifully watching the body parts being collected, breath fogging in the icy night air. (The sight of her, red nosed and wrapped in a slightly too-large jacket, brings Lisa backs to mornings pretending to be fierce and mighty dragons with _ him. _ Back when she had a different name, a different life. Is she ever going to leave that morning?) “Is there any reason for us to still be here?”  
Lisa shrugs. “Police might find something worth knowing. Also, any excuse to get out of HQ, right?” 

“I normally just go home.” Taylor says. “This is one of the more interesting dates I’ve been on, though.”

“You date?” Lisa asks, wondering why her stomach went light at the question. She remembered to eat today, right? This hour and this morning seem like they happened weeks apart.

“I tried going out with Gallant once, but we both agreed halfway the evening through that it was stupid and that we were better as friends. Haven’t tried since.”

“Oh.” Lisa’s...unsure how she feels about that. “Sorry.”

“It’s no fault of yours. It was soon after that I realized that I wasn’t really into guys at all. Only tried with Gallant because he seemed nice enough, and we only got closer as a result, funnily enough. Victoria still dislikes me, however.” Taylor smiles again, but there’s a bit of bite to this one. “Remind me to tell you about how _ that _ particular evening went.”

_ This _ , Lisa thinks, _ is exceedingly dangerous territory. _She shouldn't have asked. Why did she ask? 

“How about you? Ever dated?” 

“No.” Lisa says, and it’s true. “Dating requires mutual attraction.” And none of her feelings towards the Wards had ever really been mutual, and she didn’t really have any real contact with people outside the PRT. She’d… thought about Lily, before, but she was too afraid to lose the fledgling friendship they had managed to create by expressing romantic overtures. So she killed that spark of hope before it could grow any further. (Even though, when she listened to Lily talk about her dates, she would feel a sudden and swift ache, right in her chest, and hate whoever could make her smile for real, in a way Lisa never could.) 

“I suppose it does.” Taylor agrees, clearly picking up on Lisa’s discomfort and moving towards other topics. “So what’s the story with this one? Why do this to his victims?” Lisa wonders what it says about her that she’s more comfortable talking about murder than relationships.

“He’s imposing order on a world he finds disobedient. He’s done this before, as well. A consummate professional. I’m sure if we looked hard enough, we’d find more circular graves.”

“Why circles? Why arrange the bodies to resemble coins?”

“A circle has no beginning and no end. Like a ouroboros or a mobius strip, it’s infinite. He likely finds the thought that he could create something everlastingly perfect comforting. He’s also making a statement about the people he’s killed, with the resemblance to the face of a penny. They were worth less than pocket change.” 

“Pleasant fellow.” 

“We should look into the man’s co-workers. Nine out of ten times, the victim knows the murderer, and this person would be...noticeably off. Overbearing, aggressive, constantly vying for authority. Murder is an act of dominance, of power. He’s exerting the control he wants on other people on his victims.”

“Obsession with control often stems from a lack _ of _ it. Perhaps he’s trapped in some situation at work or at home?” Taylor offers.

“Been reading psychology books?”

“I plan on being a psych major. I’ve done a bit of reading ahead, yes.” 

“Tip for studying: most psychopaths don’t allow themselves to be controlled, at least not while they can help it. That’s why they disproportionately gravitate towards positions of authority: CEO’s, surgeons, clergy.”

“I’ll make a note of it. Any others tips, professor Lisa?” Taylor wraps the word _ professor _ with a tone that sends blood rushing to Lisa’s face. That’s what she gets for being a know-it-all, she supposes. ( _ Know-it-all, know-it-all, _ the kids cheer and holler at her as she passes through the halls. She stopped participating in class after that. Safer to be a ghost.) 

“We should head back to HQ.” Lisa says, her voice thick with embarrassment. “We should at least try to gather information before the autopsy.”

“I suppose we should.” Taylor looks vaguely disappointed, but Lisa’s already moving back to the car. 

* * *

Her first meeting with Shadow Stalker isn’t pleasant. 

She’s walking back to the break room in silence. Taylor had split off to visit her own personal quarters, so Lisa’s quietly panicking over the sudden thought that she had offended Taylor somehow but she has no idea _ how _ she would have done that but she was definitely more subdued on the drive back so she must have done _ something. _

The elevator _ dings _and she steps out to see someone lounging on the couch. If simple arithmetic didn’t lead her to the conclusion that this is Shadow Stalker, the costume would have, all blacks and greys. Her mask is off, and she eyes lazily drift up to Lisa. A cross between a smirk and a sneer grows on her face.

“So.” Her voice is low and confident. “You’re the new girl.”

“That I am, Shadow Stalker. Call me Oracle.”

“I know your name. You’re all the buzz amongst the kids. Flew down from New York just to take a look at who ganked Browbeat, right?”

Lisa’s very quickly beginning to understand _ why _Taylor didn’t like Shadow Stalker very much.

“How’s that whole thing going, by the way?” If that’s what she thinks unconcerned sounds like, she needs additional acting classes. “Is some psycho targeting the Wards, or…”

“No.” Lisa says. “Browbeat was personal. Or wasn’t, depending on your point of view. A means to an end.” Sophia visibly relaxes at that, swinging her legs off the couch and moving to stand.

“Well, that’s good. I mean, sucks for Browbeat but at least we’re not being hunted by some psycho.”

“Not anymore than usual.” Lisa murmurs. Sophia locks eyes with her, sharp and intense. She takes a step closer, into Lisa’s personal space. Lisa knows better than to step back. She knows exactly what this is— Testing the newbie. 

“Didn’t see you on the patrol schedule.” Sophia drawls, accusation dripping off her lips, still smirking. (Lisa’s seen that smile before. Freshman year of highschool, Jane Drewe, the junior with too much time on her hands and a tongue she wags too much, telling the whole class about how _ little Sarah Livesy’s brother is dead and she cries in the bathroom when she thinks no one is listening.) _ “Why is that?”

“I don’t do patrols.” Lisa responds, cold as ice. She refuses to rise to the insinuation that’s being broadcasted in Sophia’s eyes: _ Coward. _ “My power’s good for investigation, not arrests. And PR’s not thrilled that I’m licensed to carry. They’d prefer if I stayed out of the public eye.”

“Afraid that you’ll cap someone?” Shadow Stalker grins. Lisa finds her flippancy exceedingly aggravating.

“Afraid that people will _ think _ I am.” She’s never pulled the trigger. (although she wonders if she would have, had Charlotte made a different choice. She’s spent many nights thinking about that while the ghost of the girl she watched die bled out all over her bed.)

“Are you?” There’s a dark curiosity in her tone, and Lisa wonders if that crossbow dangling from her hip isn’t just for show. 

“No.”

“Hm. Bullets aren’t that effective on our class of criminal anyway.” Sophia steps past her and into the elevator, reaching over to hit the button. “See you in the trenches.” She offers, and then the doors slide shut.

* * *

Lisa’s never liked autopsies. She’s long ago lost her weak stomach towards corpses (it’s herself that makes her nauseous, herself and those she’s allowed inside) but seeing a body so vivisected and disassembled manages to turn her guts. Hah. Turn her guts. It’s almost funny. Taylor isn’t doing much better, but she hasn’t actually lost her dinner yet even if she looks distinctly uncomfortable. Lisa offers a silent apology for dragging this kind, thoughtful girl into her world. 

“Well, doc? What do you have for me?”

The coroner smiles at her levity. “Well, as you can see, I have a man turned into a puzzle pieces. His name is Kyle Turner, in case you were wondering. Went home after his shift at a grocer’s, and he never turned back up. I’d place the actual time of death...about 48, roughly. He hasn’t had time to decompose yet. As you described, he was carved up, extremely precisely. The incisions are extraordinarily precise. Sadly, we have no grooves or shards of metal that might give us something to go off of. He takes care of his equipment, clearly. However, I would postulate that while he may have anatomical know-how, he’s not a surgeon.”  
“What makes you say that?” Taylor asks, her eyes locked on the dead man’s forehead. 

“He sawed through certain parts of the body a surgeon would know better not to, if you look—”

“Have you inspected the head?” Taylor interrupts, distantly.

“What?”

“There’s a flaw in his forehead.” Taylor says, eyes narrow with focus, seeing something invisible to the rest of them. “Right in the middle.”  
The corner moves around, and stares intently at the severed body part. “I don’t… wait.” He flicks on his surgical glasses. “My god. He grafted skin onto the forehead.” Quickly, the man grabs a scalpel and begins very delicately peeling back the replaced flesh. “The discoloration of the post-mortis skin disguised it-must have been the first thing he did after killing him. Clearly used some kind of adhesive to mask the—” The scalpel slips _ into _ the skull with a dull _ chunk. _ The doctor freezes.

“There’s something in here.” He says, very slowly. “I can almost—” He twists the scalpel and pulls it out, and a darkly painted penny clicks out onto the table, rattling and rattling until it comes to still, softly dripping red onto the sterile white floor. 

Lisa dives into that small drop of blood, swimming down and down until the world goes black and she then _ sees _him. The penny was his signature. His mark. He turns his victims into art pieces as much as he does into piggy banks. He’s a man of wealth, of stature. He’ll be a figure in high society. She can picture him clearly, facial features obscured but well dressed, casually turning a penny in his fingers round and round like the shallow graves he’d dug in the ground. He turns to face Lisa, and his face is not his face, but some mixture of Browbeat’s and Charlotte’s, bamboo bursting from their foreheads like flowers blooming in the cracks of the sidewalk.

_ You have to kill them all. _

Lisa thanks the doctor and then all but runs from the room. 


	5. Chapter 5

The coin is  _ new.  _ That’s the most interesting detail about it. Freshly minted, still shiny, once the blood and brain fluids have been cleaned off. No fingerprints, but it’s indicative of a pattern. And once Lisa finds a pattern, she can find the mistake. No serial killer can keep on killing without making some kind of mistake somewhere along the line. Often, it’s the first kill that’s the sloppiest. Their first taste. Either it’s too eager and hasty, rushed in execution, or they overcompensated and were too careful, tried too hard to erase what they had done. Somewhere in all his designs will be a flaw that she can use to nail him. 

Lisa has spent so many hours trying to understand Browbeat’s killer that she almost welcomes this new case. It’s been about two weeks or so since her arrival at Brockton Bay, and she’s still no closer to catching the copycat. There is no traceable motive, and as far as she can tell, the serial killer (it had to be a serial killer, you don’t go from upstanding citizen straight to staking a Ward in cold blood) has never killed like that before, so there’s no pattern to go off of. Lisa keeps having to reuse her power, sending her deeper and deeper into that alien mindset… which isn’t so alien to her anymore. It was merely  _ different.  _ The killer feels nothing about Browbeat, but that wasn’t to say she feels nothing at all.    
No. Certainly not.

The killer felt  _ deeply.  _ Emotions so rich and powerful that Lisa  would have to squirrel herself away for hours, trying to get those phantom sensations and lingering thoughts  _ out. _ She didn’t trust herself to interact with other people afterwards. A ghostly song would play behind her ears, and she would find herself tapping in rhythm to its beat. Her feet move to the tempo of a different drum. Like a puppet tied up with piano strings, (a puppet named Lisa, locked in the cupboard alone with the monsters, forgotten and unwanted.) The killer murdered Browbeat not only to further some agenda, but to examine herself by doing so, to see his eyes reflecting her as she remade him.  She had taken Browbeat, a boy who was barely a boy, a man who wasn’t alive but merely living, and transformed him into something vibrant and beautiful. A memorial to something so much greater than he could ever be, a declaration to the world. Browbeat’s murder served some kind of purpose. She— the killer had  _ done  _ something to him. Lisa just couldn’t figure out what yet. 

“Lisa? We’re here.” 

At least she has a friend to help her get through it all. She glances over at Taylor, who through some act of god has managed to find a parking spot in the hellishly small lot for the Brockton Central Bank. In the last few days, Lisa’s spent a majority of her waking hours with the graceful, refined girl who likes books and cooking and always greets her with a smile. The other Wards, save for Clockblocker and Shadow Stalker, are nice enough, but they tend to stick to their older friends. She doesn’t blame them. Lisa wouldn’t want to be friends with herself, either. (No one does. Not after Reggie. Lisa became the lonely girl in the corner, the one sitting by herself on the bus. Her friends became her ghosts and her memories.) And it’s not like she‘s going to be a permanent addition, anyway. Taylor just doesn’t seem to  _ care  _ about that, which…is nice, for a change. Lisa will be sorry to leave her. 

Taylor’s warm brown eyes flicker up from her phone, and Lisa realizes she’s been staring and quickly looks away, blood rushing to her face. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’s not a goddamn kid anymore, she shouldn’t be—ugh. She really needs to get her brain back inside her skull.

“Remind me what we’re looking for?” Taylor asks, giving Lisa an easy out, but the sly amusement in her voice sends a message loud and clear. Lisa refuses to continue to make a fool of herself.    


“Mostly looking if anyone remembers someone withdrawing pennies that were...odd. Once we narrow down the list we’re  _ actually  _ going to have to do house-to-house interviews.”   


“Are they really so bad?”   


“You have no idea. Ordinary police make people antsy.  _ We  _ make people terrified or giddy, and I’m not sure which is worse.”    


“Not a fan of fans?”    


“That would require  _ having  _ fans. No, Wards make people curious, and their questions tend to be thoughtless.”   


“You’ve been asked how you got powers,” Taylor guesses. Lisa gave her a humorless smile.

“And so have you.”   


“I try not to hold it against them. It’s not like they know any better.”    


“Ignorance only works once as an excuse,” Lisa shoots back. “And there are some things which you should learn for your own sake, if not others.” 

“Amen to that. We should probably get a move on, though.’

“Ah—yes.”   


They step out of the car and quickly move into the bank, and all eyes swivel to the costumed girls. Lisa’s spine instantly goes stiff as the dozens of people all gawk at her, like she’s an animal on display. (Like a caged bird, rare and exotic but if you get your fingers too close to the bars she’ll bite you. Haven’t you heard? Lisa Wilbourn is crazy.) Taylor smiles and waves, but moves briskly through the crowd and into the back offices.    


“We’re meeting with the bank’s manager, correct?” Taylor asks.    


“Yeah—guy by the name of Jeffry Clayton.”    


“What  _ were  _ his parents thinking? Clayton is bad enough.”    


“Sure you’re one to talk?” Lisa knows better than to use civilian names in costume, but Taylor gets the message loud and clear, miming a gasp.

“How dare you offend me so. My parents took the utmost care in naming me. Besides,” she says, dropping to a whisper, “it was either Taylor or Dorothy.”    


“You’re shitting me.”   


“My father really liked  _ The Wizard of Oz.”  _

“At  _ least _ get Elphaba or Glinda.”    


“That is what I said, yes.” 

It’s not long before they come to the door titled  _ Jeffry A. Clayton—Manager,  _ and swing it open. The office is, frankly, immaculate. The carpeted floor is the cleanest Lisa has ever seen, and the walls remain a pure white that wouldn’t have been out of place in a brand-new hospital, tastefully decorated with artwork that Lisa could only describe as post-modern and in whole rather dull to look at. A Newton’s Cradle sits quietly on the desk, along with a sleek laptop. The manager of the bank himself is thin, dark brown eyes locked on his computer, black hair combed back and chin free of stubble. His three-piece suit draws the eye, black on black on black—bold, certainly. He glances up and softly shuts his computer screen, but makes no move to get up.

“Gordian and… Oracle, I presume.”   


“You presume correctly.” Taylor smiles. “I hope we’re not borrowing too much of your time.”   


“Well, there are no meetings scheduled for today, so it was easy enough to slot you in. Certainly the most interesting names on my list.” He motions for them to sit down. “What can I do for the PRT?”    


“Well, Mr. Clayton, recently we’ve come across bodies buried with pennies inserted into them.” The man blanches, but Lisa presses on. “We were hoping we could get a list of people who’ve withdrawn pennies over the last few weeks, as well as ask your staff 

if they remember anyone unusual coming in to make the request.”    


“Well, I can certainly accommodate  _ that _ .” He opens his computer once more. “However, I’m going to have to ask that you not disturb my employees during working hours. If you must interview them, kindly do so when they’re off the clock.”   


“We will of course try to limit the effect on your business, Mr. Clayton, but my first priority is to perform a thorough investigation.” 

“I should hope so. Fortunately for you, that’s a short list. Only collectors and the like really bother.” The soft  _ clack  _ of keys fills the air as he moves to fulfill Lisa’s request. 

“Then we’ll be out of your hair all the quicker,” Lisa assures. “While you’re doing that, I don’t suppose you recall any unusual activity in the bank, recently?”

“Not really. I don’t interact much with customers. My staff can be disorganized, but they’re hardly malicious.” Clayton’s dark eyes briefly meet Lisa’s in a smile. “You’d be amazed at how difficult some of the board meetings can be. Rowdy bunch, the lot of them.” The printer begins whining and whirring, and Lisa’s given a small list of withdrawals shortly after. “I hope that helps. Please let me know if I can do anything more.”   


“We will, Mr. Clayton. Thank you for your time.” There is a shaking of hands and then they are gone from the office. 

“Well? What next?” Taylor asks.    


“Now, Gordian, we do possibly the worst part of detective work ever.” Lisa grimaces. “Actual door-to-door interviews.” 

* * *

“Actually shoot me.” Lisa begs, curling up into a ball so she might comfort her aching head. “Please. Just do it. Free me from my misery. Shuffle me off this mortal coil. End my suffering.”    


“Lisa, we’ve only talked to three people.” Taylor says through the open door, tapping her foot as her car fills with gas.

“ _ I know.”  _

“So, Mr. Alexi. Where were you two days ago, around 10:30.pm?” Lisa’s trying so, so hard to smile. (You gotta smile, because they’ll think something’s wrong if you don’t smile.  _ Smile for the camera, sweetie. _ )

“Why, I was in my home, of course.” Mr. Alexi has a silky smooth accent that Lisa can’t place, and it’s only serving to boil the irritation that’s simmering her blood. His living room is soft and velvet, and frankly full of a bunch of art pieces that Lisa finds offensive to her eyes. His house is certainly grandiose, as one of the members of Brockton’s elite. Sadly, not the supervillain kind, or else Lisa could make an arrest right here and now. God, that would be so satisfying and wipe that dumb grin off his face. 

“Enjoying a quiet dinner.”    


“Is there anyone who would be able to confirm that, Mr Alexi?”    


“Only my cat.”   


“I see. And how many years have you been a coin collector?”    


“Oh, it’s a hobby I picked up a little while ago…”    


* * *

“Lisa, you can’t just— are you  _ chewing  _ on the lid of the coffee cup?” 

“I’m hungry!”   


“It’s only ten?”   


“...I may have skipped breakfast.”

“ _ Lisa.”  _   


“It’s not a big deal. I’ll grab a snack when we’re done.”    


“We have at least fifty more to go.”   


“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkkkk.”

* * *

“Ms. Diane, at what time do you get home from work, usually?”   


“Well, I get off at seven, but since I work so far away it usually takes me around an hour to get home, give or take.”   


“I see… did you do any shopping after you got off from work?”    


“Oh no, I shop on the weekends. Too busy during the weekdays.”    


“Where do you shop, Ms. Diane?”   


“Oh that lovely little supermarket downtown…” 

* * *

“How are they all so boring.  _ How.”  _

“I thought that she was perfectly charming, if...dull.”    


“Ugh. Let’s grab a bite to eat before we continue. I’ll actually die otherwise.”

* * *

“They call this a burger? This is disgusting.” Taylor sniffs at the drive-through food they’d picked up, her patty dripping grease. “I’m gonna be sick later.”    


Lisa would have added commentary, but her own burger calls her. She’s too hungry to care at this point, honestly. Any food is good food, right now. 

“How can you  _ eat  _ that?” Taylor mumbles, picking at the lettuce in her own food.    


“It’s food, ihsnt’?” Lisa grumbles, grabbing the small plate of fries. “All the same, in the end.”

Taylor stares at Lisa with an expression so horrified, she nearly chokes on the fries from laughter. 

* * *

“Mr. Ore—”   


“Can I take a picture with you two?”    


Lisa feels her teeth grinding together. She’s going to stab him. Right below the eye, at the nerve cluster, it causes  _ unimaginable pain.  _ She’d used it on— no, no she didn’t, that was a killer from nearly a year ago and she  _ is not him  _ but she’s tired and her walls are falling. Taylor quickly comes to her rescue.

“I’m afraid we have a busy schedule, Mr. Ore. Please, just answer our questions?”   


The asshole had the audacity to look put out. “Fine, fine. What do you want?”   


“Where were you Monday night, around eight?”    


“Uhh...I was having a drink, I think.”    


“Did anyone go with you?”    


“No, I was by myself.”    


“I see. And forgive me for being blunt, but you don’t have any family?”   


“Nah. Never really found the right woman…” 

* * *

“Are you  _ sure  _ that none of them are the killer?” Taylor asks, getting back into the car for the forty-third time today.    


“None of them have given any indication, no. Nothing weird about the house, their stories, and most of them have had alibis for the time of death. We can’t be sure from just that though, or everyone would have my job. This is just...trying to narrow down the suspect list.” 

“This is taking forever,” Taylor mutters under breath. “There has to be a faster way to get this done.”   


“Onwards and upwards, partner.” 

* * *

It’s about 6:37, and Lisa stumbles out of the car with dead legs, feeling as if the insides of her brain have been scraped out and replaced with cotton balls. She’s tired and hot and god she just wants to lie down in a cold room and never wake up.    


“So…” Taylor begins, looking just as  _ done  _ as Lisa is, exhaustion written all over her face.

“So that fucking sucked, yeah. We’ve got maybe three or four suspects, but only due to lack of solid alibi.”

“Do we hit up another bank, try again?”    


“Not till tomorrow, we don’t. I refuse to talk to any more coin collectors until I’ve had sleep and coffee.”    


“So what now?”    


Lisa shrugs. “Do whatever. Putz around, do Ward things. I…” Lisa sighs. “I probably need to go back to the morgue.” The shivering of leaves behind her.  _ Drip. Drip.  _ She knows better than to look, but she doesn’t even need to. It’s all in her head, after all. 

“Honestly, if you don’t have anything else to do, I’d say go home. Rest. You deserve it after I dragged you around and whined in your ear all day.”   


“It wasn’t  _ that  _ bad.” Taylor assures.

“Taylor, please. I hated it too.”   


“Okay, it was pretty bad.” Taylor admits, cracking a smile for the first time since the slog had begun. “But I didn’t hate spending time with you.” It’s so earnest that Lisa feels uncomfortable when facing its intensity. She turns away with a half shrug.    


“Well, at least one person doesn’t.” The words come from someplace dark and bitter inside her lungs. Taylor’s smile falls, and Lisa immediately backtracks. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Taylor. Thank you for all your help.”    


“...okay. See you tomorrow, Lisa.” Taylor walks away, and Lisa lets out an explosive sigh, her stomach churning comfortably. Goddamn it. Couldn’t she just accept a damn compliment like a normal human being? Why was she like this? 

_ Your fault.  _ Whispers someone, from right behind her ear. 

“Yeah.” She mutters back. “I know.”   


She walks back to the morgue with two ghosts flanking her. One new, one old, harmonizing the white noise of rope grinding against rope with the drumbeat of leaves dripping blood until she’s back in the room again, drawing out the body of Kyle Turner.   


And 

_ Tick. _

_ Tick.  _ _   
_

_ Tick. _

She falls into the mind of a killer once more. 


	6. Chapter 6

She’s walking through a field. The grass is vibrant and razor thin, shards of painted glass catching the light of the sun and setting the landscape aglow. The flowers are just as pristine, white roses that she paints red with every step she takes, razor-sharp glass sinking into her feet. She barely feels it, but she leaves behind her a trail of bright, fresh blood. The roses seem to drink up the crimson, while the grass fights to retain its green. An all-too familiar smell fills the air, coppery and _rich. _Her lungs breath it in like it’s a delicate fragrance. It smells like power and dominance and an animalistic strength. She closes her eyes to bask. When she opens them, six circular graves surround her, nestled in the glass. Within lie her victims, her art pieces, her piggy banks. Disordered, chaotic beings transformed into pure and clean patterns. A cleansing. A restoration of order. She does not feel remorse nor regret. She only wishes that she could actually kill—

A long shadow falls over her. Lisa turns to see a human-shaped darkness approaching, its outline too faint and blurry to make out any details. It follows the trail of blood she left, the bright crimson turning dark and arterial, new growth strangling the roses and grass in favor of more wild and exotic plant life. The shadow grows close, looming over her, blotting out the light. Her head goes faint. Something’s wrong—

_ **You have to kill them all. ** _

Something grabs at her ankle. She turns to look and Charlotte is in the grave, staring up at her with eyes of open flame, teeth bared in a hateful snarl. Another hand—

Reggie. Flesh as cold and pale as that morning, eyes clouded and distant. The noose still hangs around his neck. He looks lost and alone and afraid.

_ **Your fault. ** _

“No—”

They drag her down, down, down, deep into the loving embrace of the razor sharp earth, and she is ripped to shreds inside a freshly made grave.

Lisa wakes up with a pounding headache, a cold sweat, and the feeling of knives being dragged her skin.

* * *

She finds Taylor in the break room, coffee mug already waiting for her, filled with the life-giving liquid.

“Hey, stranger.” Lisa offers. Taylor gives her a smile that’s no dimmer than yesterday’s. Hope sparks in Lisa’s chest that she hasn’t already ruined her chance at this.

“Hey yourself.” Taylor frowns. “You look… tired. Did you not sleep well last night?”

“Never do.” Lisa admits. “Poor sleep kind of comes with the job. But I got something useful from my power last night.”

“Oh? What did you see?”

“More of a feeling, but—our murder didn’t want to kill Kyle Turner – or, at least, not as much as he wanted to kill someone else. He was projecting.”

“He’s angry at someone else, but for some reason he can’t kill them?”

“Exactly. I’d reckon that’s why we’ve had no luck figuring out who would want to kill Kyle Turner— he’s an outlet. His killer probably barely knew him. I’d say our killer knows it would look too suspicious to kill the source of his frustration. But it’s pretty difficult to hide homicidal feelings twenty-four seven. _Someone _will have noticed something off. Find the intended target, find the killer.”

“How are we going to do that? None of our potential suspects yesterday stood out.”

“You do me a favor— grab Armsmaster, ask him if he can pull up the security footage where Kyle worked, see if any of them hit facial recognition. I need to head back to Brockton Central Bank.”

“Why?”

“Following up on that meeting with the employees.”

“Didn’t he specifically ask you not to do that during working hours?” Lisa shrugs.

“I want them to be able to answer bank-related questions. Feels like we’re going to have to expand our list at this rate. Also, I don’t care.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” Lisa calls back, already striding away, “I’m a people person.”

* * *

Lisa dips behind the door to the offices of the bank and into one of the employee offices. The man she’s ambushed looks up with confusion and then panic on his face. “You can’t be back here.” He blurts out, going pale. “If Mr. Clayton finds out I’m slacking off during working hours he’ll be furious with me.”

“I’m sure my badge will change his mind. Now—” Lisa plops down on one of the chairs. “There’s questions I need answering, and I’ve selected you to answer them.”

“_Please.” _The man hisses. “He— he might _fire me._”

“For talking to a government official?” Lisa rolls her eyes, and something gleams on the man’s neck. A closer look reveals it’s sweat. The hairs on her neck begin to rise. His eyes are wide and bloodshot. “Mister… Applemore,” she says slowly, glancing at the name tag as she begins to take his panic more seriously. “Are you afraid of Mr. Clayton?”

“I— I wouldn’t say that I’m _afraid _of him…”

“Do you have a reason to believe he’d fire you for talking to me?” Applemore licks his lips. His eyes dart around the room as another bead of sweat slides down his forehead. Check four boxes for stress.

“He’s...irritable. Needs to have everything be a certain way. Deviation from his preferred patterns get you _spoken to._” A very cold stone drops into Lisa’s gut as her mind begins to click small little details she hadn’t even been cognizant of into place.

“What… _patterns _does Mr. Clayton prefer?”

“His own? I— he’s constantly _fixing _things. Adjusting ties, pens, papers— speak out against him in a meeting and it’s like a shark smelling blood. We’re all terrified of him.”

She had stared right at him. How hadn’t she known? “Has he ever given you reason to think he’d do you harm?” She asks, already half-aware of the answer.

“He’s fired people before for things like this, and he’s… intense. Makes odd comments if someone’s really pissing him off. Once I sneezed during a seminar and he just… stared at me like I had spit on his face. Watched me the rest of the day.”

“Is Mr.Clayton in the office today?” She asks, gun feeling preemptively heavy. “No— actually, he went home just after you left the bank, I haven’t seen him but—” Lisa’s already dialing Taylor’s number. It goes to voicemail, oddly enough.

“Gordian. Drop whatever it is you’re doing and get me Jeffy Clayron’s address. We need to have another conversation with him.” She leaves the message and turns back to the now thoroughly frightened man.

“Mr. Applemore, I’m afraid I’m going to need you to answer some more questions about your boss.”

* * *

“Lisa, are you _sure?” _

“The office, Taylor. It was immaculate. Obsession with patterns, easy access to fresh pennies, antisocial behavior— He was right in front of me. How did I miss him?”

“I don’t want to say you’re wrong, but— one conversation, and now you think he’s a killer?”

“I think he warrants looking closer into.” They pull up in front of a post-modern style house, something which Lisa doesn’t find surprising at all. A snazzy but quiet little place near the edge of town, with no witness around to report anything. Perfect, if you wanted to carve up a body. “And if he is our killer, I think I can make him give himself away.”

“Lisa,” Taylor intones, her voice low but with panic thrumming beneath the forced calm in her voice. “What do you plan on doing?” Lisa gives Taylor an adrenaline fueled grin, wild and full of teeth. Her heart is a jackhammer in her chest, pumping blood and fire and the need to not be too late again.

“I’m going to needle the potential serial killer.”

“Wait—” She’s already out of the car and striding to the door, knocking firmly. When that doesn’t work, she rings the doorbell. After the second long ring, a still well-dressed but significantly more frazzled-looking Jeffry Clayton answered the door.

“Oracle? I wasn’t aware that you were coming, I—”

“Yes, well, it’s rather urgent. Excuse me.” Lisa slips right past him and into his house, immediately taking stock of the surroundings. Glossy and _chic _are the words that immediately leap to mind, the house divided up into perfect angles and lines. Artwork involving geometric patterns line the walls. Greys and whites dominate the color palette of the walls, contrasting with the reds and blues of the paintings. The part of him she’s allowed into her head finds these beautiful. The rest of her sees another sign.

“Young lady, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave my house unless you have a—”

“Don’t need a warrant to talk to you, Mr. Clayton.” Lisa wanders deeper into the house, the design open and clean, boots clicking on the polished faux-wooden floor. “And I assumed you’d prefer to do this here than at the station.”

Clayton goes stiff for a moment. Check.

“Am I a _suspect?_” He demands, outrage evident in that _I'm-a-good-tax-paying-citizen-how-dare _kind of way.

“I talked to your employees, Mr. Clayton.” Lisa says, drifting into his kitchen, which is sterile and devoid of food. Doesn’t even look like it’s been used, it’s so clean. A lone island stands in the middle, four chairs lined up in front of it. _Perfect. _“They had interesting things to say to me.”

“They’re paranoid.” He growls. “And disorganized. Yes, I’ve barked at them but that’s hardly grounds to suspect me for _murder._”

“Yes, it’s hardly grounds… by itself.” Lisa says, twisting a chair as she passes a counter. His eyes lock on it immediately. She keeps going, shifting them out of order. His hands twitch as he circles around to the other side of the island. Taylor trails into the room, moving to her side. She’s dangerously relaxed, clearly feeling the tension in the air and readying to move. “But then I had someone look at your own deposits.” Clayton’s eyes flicker up to hers. His face is deathly pale and devoid of any emotion. “So.” Lisa says, smiling. “Care to tell me why you—”

Jeffry becomes a blur.

“_Lisadown!” _ Taylor slams into her, driving both of them to the floor, her head smacking against the wood with a dull _thud _that has her ears ringing. Lisa fumbles for her gun, the knife Jeffry had thrown clattered somewhere behind her. She hears more than sees the serial killer leaping over the counter and then the fight begins, with Taylor and Jeffry little more than washes of color in her vision, the sound of bone and flesh impacting against each other filling the air. Lisa tries to get up, but something black and _hard _slams into head and then she’s not seeing anything anymore.

* * *

“Lisa?”

God, no. No noise. No sound. Her brain feels like God’s shoved his finger into it and turned up all her pain receptors to max. At least someone put something soft beneath her head.

“Lisa, are you awake?” She manages to groan ineffectually, raising her hands to her head as if she could compress the pain down into something manageable.

“I need you to open your eyes, please.” After what feels like several minutes, Lisa manages to force her eyes open, her reflection clear in Taylor’s polished black visor. Her hood has been pulled back to reveal a nasty purple and yellow bruise on her forehead. The impact from the—

_Shit! _

She tries to get up and the motion turns the world green and lights her brain on fire, so she chooses the path of least nausea and collapses back onto… whatever she was on.

“Lisa, Lisa— we’re okay. He ran.”

“You didn’t win?” Lisa groans out, praying that someone would either gave her pain reliever right the fuck now or just put her out of her misery.

Wait. If Taylor’s face was up there…

“He was… significantly more skilled than I gave him credit for.” Taylor admits. “He managed to knock my helmet askew long enough to run out the back door and into the woods, and I couldn’t pursue, not with you still unconscious. I was terrified he’d double back and finish you off.”

“We have his name, his face, and his car.” Lisa mumbles. “He won’t get far. You call for backup?”

“Five minutes ago. They’ll be here any minute now.”

“Okay. One more question: why is my head on your lap?” Taylor’s lower face tinted red, and she nervously shifted her legs. “I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t injure yourself when you woke up, and I couldn’t find any pillows…”

“Makes sense.” Lisa lies. “I’m not moving any time soon, so… uh. Hope your legs don’t fall asleep.”

“...Hm.” Despite everything, Lisa grins.

“They already have, haven’t they?”

“I didn’t think this through.” Taylor admits. Lisa chuckles at that, and waits for the sirens.

* * *

After the medics check her out (nothing too bad, thank god, she just needs to take it easy for a week or two, depending) and she and Taylor slowly get into the car.

“Well. Time to go home.” Lisa grumbles. “And swallow an entire bottle of painkillers.”

“About that—I’ve had concussions before, and… well, I was thinking that maybe you should spend the night at my place, just to be safe.” Taylor says. Perhaps sensing Lisa’s immediate hesitation: “Just so that if you collapse or don’t wake up, I can take you to the hospital.” Lisa does her best not to read into the offer. She fails and accepts anyway.

* * *

Taylor’s house is honestly adorable. It’s a small thing, quaint and old-fashioned. True wooden floors with soft carpets and earth-toned paints, textured walls lined with photos of people she didn’t recognize but assumed were friends and family. It couldn’t have been more apparent that Taylor had poured a lot of time and love into this house. The largest space in the entire place was the kitchen, and as Lisa suspected, most of Taylor’s budget had gone into it, with lightbulbs hanging in clusters from the ceiling, a gas stove polished to perfection, and a clean marble counter for preparing food. Taylor quickly got to work, slipping off her helmet and going over to the magnetized fridge, getting out various ingredients.

“What’s for dinner?” Lisa asks as she gingerly sits down in a chair, taking off her domino mask and gratefully taking the bottle of aspirin that Taylor slides across the counter, downing two pills.

“Well, since you skipped it, I’d thought I make breakfast: high life eggs, with a side of sausage.”

“Breakfast for dinner. You’re a strange girl, Taylor Hebert.”

“Good. Ordinary sounds boring.” The conversation dies as Taylor cooks, cracking open egg shells with swift movements and pouring them into carved-out bread that’s sizzling and popping in a song that Lisa hasn’t heard in a long time. (She doesn’t remember exactly what she’d eaten _that _morning, but she certainly hasn’t had a meal like this in a long time.) Soon, a beautiful plate of sausage and fluffy bread with a core of sunny-side up eggs sits in front of her, and she greedily digs in, relishing the rich taste of the meat and the light, soft texture of the breaded eggs. Even the way Taylor eats is more refined than her, delicately carving up her food and biting into it with a deliberate grace. As Lisa stares at the girl, she realizes that if there was ever at time to talk about… _that_, it would be now. She takes another bite of sausage and a swig of water, trying to find the right words and script out the conversation. She arrives at something and decides to go with it.

“You’ve been flirting with me.” Wait. No. That is not what she had thought of saying. Fuck. Taylor stares over at her, fork going down as she tilts her and smirks.

“I was beginning to worry you weren’t noticing.” The smirk vanishes as Lisa doesn’t reciprocate. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No.” Lisa admits. “It’s kind of nice, knowing someone thinks you’re attractive. But… at the risk of sounding cliche, it’s not you, it’s me.” Lisa purses her lips, trying to find a way to say what comes next. Her eyes drift to her reflection in the water glass, and she sees the specter of Charlotte staring back at her. “I’m not…” _Stable. Sane. Safe. _“I think like killers for a living. It’s not an easy job. And I get… lost, sometimes. There are mornings and evenings and days where I don’t feel like myself. And I… it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to put up with that I’m… I’m damaged goods, Taylor.” She suddenly wishes she had something strong to drink despite the fact that she’s hated alcohol any time she’s tried it. (Standing outside her mother’s door, hearing her complain on the phone about her _damaged_ daughter and going to her room, the words _defective _and _broken _swarming inside her head like flies) “Not to mention I’ll be gone once Browbeat’s murder is solved. And I’m ace, and that— there’s a lot of reasons why a relationship isn’t a good idea. But…”

“But?” Taylor prompts, hope clear on her face.

“...before I decide whether or not I want one… can we just… be friends, first? I haven’t had many of those. I’d like to enjoy it.” Taylor reaches over and grasps Lisa’s hand, skin soft and smooth and cool to the touch.

“Of course, Lisa,” she says, tone warm and eyes full of understanding. “If that’s what you want, I’ll respect it.”

“Thanks.” Lisa says, taking another swig of water. “Sorry. I… I’m not good with these kind of things.”

“You’re fine, Lisa. Now— if you’re going to be staying the night, we might as well make the most of it. I think I have some cards around here somewhere…”

“Cards? Seriously? You have a TV, don’t you?”

“You have a concussion, you should avoid looking at screens too much. Besides, I’m a mean Go Fish player.” Lisa accepts her fate and tries to smile (she doesn’t remember how playdates go anymore. They were something that other children did. Not her.)

“Fine. You’re on.”

They get the news about three weeks later: Jeffry Clayton is found in a ditch with his neck broken and his lungs missing, cut cleanly out of his body. Within the foggy sheen of his dead eyes, Lisa sees Browbeat’s killer waving hello.


	7. Chapter 7

Lisa ducks under the swing, desperately bringing up her arms to block the next strike. A shin smashes into her side, knocking her off balance and right into a blow to the jaw that sends her tumbling to the floor. Before she can react, her opponent pins her with inhuman swiftness, weight resting uncomfortably on Lisa’s stomach, arms firmly keeping hers on the ground.

Taylor leans in close and grins, teeth pearly white. “I win.”

“For the tenth time.” Lisa mutters. Taylor releases her and offers a hand up, bringing Lisa back to her feet, and Lisa feels every bruise as she rises. “Why did I agree to this again?”

“Because we need to make sure you can protect yourself if we have another Jeffry Clayton. Besides, it’s fun.”

“For ___you___, maybe. I just feel sore.”

“But a good kind of sore, right?” Taylor’s smile is infectious, and Lisa offers a small grin back.

“I’ll let you know in an hour.”

Taylor chuckles, tossing Lisa’s water bottle at her before reaching for her own and drinking deeply. Lisa’s eyes drift to Taylor’s neck, watching it flex and move as the girl refreshes herself, skin shining with sweat. The gleam of light is mesmerizing, even as it goes from reflective and tinged pink to opaque and red, and she sees the throat opening up like a flower, blooming crimson. She’s opened up so many pretty necks just like that— Lisa turns away and drinks, trying to wash out the memory of a killer she’d put away years ago.

“Come on, let’s go again. Do you want to try knives, or…”

“Let’s just stick with basic defense right now.”

“Sure thing, Lisa.”

Lisa’s still thinking about the way Taylor says her name when the fists start flying. Left jab, right right jab, left swing— Taylor moves ___deceptively ___fast, and Lisa’s all but tripping over her own feet to try and just get away from her. There’s a lull in the action as Taylor stops her assault, taking a few steps back, bouncing lightly on her feet, seemingly weightless.

“Remember, Lisa: you need to _counter-attack__, ___not just defend. Otherwise, it’s too easy to back you into a corner.”

She darts in again, and Lisa’s _trying__, ___but her breath is already coming hard and fast and she really doesn’t want to get slammed onto the ground again and oh jesus _christ__— ___

—Her control slips...

And someone else rises up in her, moving her body low beneath a swing and throwing herself into Taylor, driving both of them to the ground. Her body is burning with hate and hunger, and she ignores Taylor’s swift gut punch in favor of wrapping her hands around Taylor’s throat, thinking only of how _gratifying_ it will be to strangle the life out of this little fly and pin her on a wall—

She doesn’t know what happens next.

She’s the one on her back now, Taylor’s arm firmly over her neck, knee planted deeply in her stomach. Her eyes are cold, flinty diamonds carved from rock.

“Lisa.” Her voice thrums with an undertone of steel and ice— it’s the voice of a soldier, a voice someone her age shouldn’t have. “You lose.” Lisa barely hears the words. She’s still looking at Taylor’s throat, the ghost of her hands bright red around it, still thinking about how _hungry_ she is, about reaching up and sinking in her teeth into sweet, succulent _flesh__. ___“_Lisa__.” ___

With a shudder, Lisa shuts down her power, and the anger is replaced by shame, intense and unrelenting, prickling at her eyes and dropping her heart into her stomach to churn and burn and send nausea rippling through her body. “I… I think I need a break.” She murmurs, cringing at how weak her voice is.

“Okay.” Taylor’s voice still hasn’t gone back to normal, slow and deliberate, even as she helps Lisa to her feet. The contact only makes things _worse__, ___somehow. Lisa gets distance as fast as she can, going over to her water bottle and absently wondering if she could maybe drown herself with it.

“Wow.” She turns to see Shadow Stalker by the door of the gym, costume on sans mask, with a wicked smirk on her face. “You really suck at this, don’t you?” Lisa doesn’t want to do this right now (is afraid of what she might say). She turns away and focuses on trying to bring down her heart rate.

“I mean, Jesus, I thought Kid Win was shit at fighting but at least he isn’t scared of throwing a punch—”

“That’s _enough__, ___Sophia.” She thought Taylor’s voice was cold before, but this reached new levels of frozen. “You’re not helping.”

Sophia’s face morphs into an ugly sneer. “Already playing white knight, Hebert? And here I thought you couldn’t get any more annoying.”

“If you’re here for a fight, Sophia, feel free to step into the ring.” Taylor steps forwards, a dangerous grace in her pace. Lisa is vividly reminded of a lion. “If you’re not, I really don’t see why you’re here.”

“As much as I’d love to kick your ass, I’m here to tell _you_ that Aegis was looking for you and new girl. Something about ‘team bonding?’ I don’t fucking know. Just go to the common room, kay? I got patrol.” She doesn’t wait for an answer before drifting off, cape fluttering as she moves.

Taylor’s eyes don’t leave Sophia’s body until she disappears behind the door. She remains tense, and Lisa thinks for a moment she sees Taylor’s fists tremble.

“Hey.” Taylor turns, and Lisa forgets what she was going to say for a second as their eyes lock, surprised by how much fury she sees painted within her dark brown irises. “Don’t— don’t feel like you need to stick out your neck on my account. I can fight my own battles.”

“I won’t let Sophia bully you.” Taylor shapes the word _bully_ like it’s a curse. “I told her a long time ago that I wouldn’t tolerate that from her. If she bothers you again, I _will_ punch her, Piggot be damned.”

“What the hell did she ___do ___to you?” Lisa asks. Taylor’s face goes dark, and Lisa can almost ___see ___the memories unfolding.

“...she took something from me.” And that’s all Lisa gets as Taylor makes her way to the showers.

* * *

It’s when she’s staring through the open doors of the Wards break room that it hits her.

The doors slide open, and she sees Taylor talking with Gallant, happily chatting about something with a small but earnest smile, Kid Win and Vista staring at each other as cards trade hands, and Aegis laughing as he slaps a hand on Clockblocker’s shoulder. Sophia, despite her earlier claims, is lingering in a corner, smirking as Vista plucks two cards from her fellow Ward.

They look like kids. They look _happy__. ___

Something inside her chest contracts and _cracks_, and panic begins to sing within her veins. She feels like an intruder— like an alien, staring into a world that she lost and doesn’t know how to get back to. Her skin crawls without real reason to, and she feels inexplicably _dirty__. ___Painfully out of place, a fractured and worn mirror in a hall of pristine paintings. She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t belong here she doesn’t belong here she doesn’t belong here no one _wants her__— ___

She can’t slam the button on the elevator fast enough, watching Taylor glance up and blink in clear confusion even as the doors slide to a close. Lisa knows that she’s hyperventilating but she can’t stop, her hands shaking violently as her brain works overtime in making her want to just die on the spot. This is the fucking stupidest thing it’s a goddamn card game but she just can’t go back in that room they all hate her she knows they do___— ___

The elevator doors slide open and she has to keep herself from running, brisk walking down the halls and trying to keep herself from crying until she’s not in view of the cameras. God, why was she _like_ this? Why was she such a fucking disaster? Why (didn’t she just _die_ already) is her reaction to a room of smiling people her age to have a fucking breakdown?

She doesn’t even really know where she’s going— somehow she ends up in a stairwell. No cameras. She sits down on one of the steps, just trying to catch her breath when she hears voices below her, and the terror is back, and now she’s running as quietly as she can up the steps— she doesn't want anyone to see her like this. She doesn’t want them to see how broken she is. She can’t be seen, she ___can’t. ___Her head feels like it’s going to burst, phantom screams from the murdered and dark dreams from the murderers bouncing around inside the echo chamber of her skull. (A lie. This time, she knows it’s all her. This is just her and the damage she’s done to herself.) She creeps out from behind a door and finds herself on the roof, instead of another corridor.

Okay. This… this works. She slowly sits down once more, just trying to get her body back under control. Her head has long since been beyond that.

So she sits and stares up at the sky, watching clouds drift lazily through the air.

_ They hate you. They don’t want you here. You’ll never belong. Not really. _

She imagines falling up into that infinite expanse of blue, higher and deeper until it would fade to black.

_ (You’re a haunted child. An abandoned toy. They will come to hate you just like you’ve come to hate yourself. ) _

_ (You might as well jump.) _

Lisa makes sure that no one is on the roof before she begins to cry.

* * *

Once she feels moderately more stable, she makes her way back down from the roof, focusing more on the sounds of her shoes hitting the metal steps than on where she was going. A mistake that means that she nearly walks right into Taylor, who’s staring at her with a face that radiates concern, dark brown eyes warm and wide.

Oh _fuck__. ___

“H-hey, Taylor.” She tries her best for a smile. It feels wrong on her face, like shifting around fractured glass, edges grinding against one another.

“Hey.” Taylor offers, voice soft, and doesn’t that just twist around Lisa’s insides into knots. “I was… worried about you. You left in a hurry. I couldn’t find you anywhere.” “Sorry— you all looked like you were having fun, and I didn’t want to get in the way of that. I needed some air, anyway.” Her throat feels like it’s going to burst, but she gets the lie out.

“You wouldn’t have gotten in the way,” Taylor promises. Lisa shrugs.

“It would have been awkward regardless. Besides, I really did need some air. Being out in the open was nice.”

Taylor frowns, clearly not buying it, but she doesn’t call Lisa out on it. Lisa’s grateful for that. She really doesn’t wanna have another breakdown on the stairs where anyone could wander in and hear her. “Well, if you’re feeling better— I’m afraid we’re being called to a meeting.” The graceful girl mock pouts, and the unusual sight turns Lisa’s smile into something genuine. “I was about to win at Go Fish, too.”

“I’m sure you can humiliate them some other time. What’s the meeting for?” Lisa asks.

“Come with me and find out?” Taylor waits until Lisa starts moving to move as well, and her fingers brush against Lisa’s hand as she leads her down the stairs. The contact is fleeting, but even so, it makes her realize how cold her hands are.

* * *

Taylor leads her into a board room filled with costumes, the entire Wards team as well as the “official” Brockton Bay PRT line up present, all looking either grim or nervous. Miss Milita’s eyes track Lisa as she comes in, as do Shadow Stalkers.

“Ah, Oracle. Thank you for coming. We can begin.” Piggot’s face is stern— Lisa doesn’t think that she’s ever seen an expression on Piggot that ___wasn’t ___some variation of the word. “Wards, I’m sorry to interrupt your day, but we have a bit of a situation on our hands. ” She hits a button on a remote, and the projector hanging from the ceiling of the meeting room flares to life, displaying a face Lisa’s never seen before. Short, choppy brown hair, wild blue eyes, and lightly tanned skin.

“This is Sander Roos, also known as Jacked, a former patient at the Parahuman Asylum down in Philadelphia. He was being treated for his cybernetic limbs, which had become defunct due to degradation. He was due to be given a clean bill of health when he broke out of the Asylum, killing five guards and another patent, and he’s managed to largely avoid authorities for weeks. It’s clear from what little footage and eye-witness reports along with… the bodies… that he’s coming home to Brockton Bay.”

The air in the room goes heavy at the words. “If you see him, _do not approach__. ___His tinker-tech limbs are evidently working again, and he’s killed several officers sent to dispatch him. You will signal us and we will advise you on your next move. Only intervene if he’s actively threatening civilians. Otherwise, stay back. We can’t risk losing any of you.”

Lisa briefly wonders how the hell _that_ lined up with the Wards having recently gotten into a fight with _Lung__, ___but she’s snapped out of it by the sound Piggot saying her name.

“Oracle, I know you’re still working on— on the Browbeat investigation, but I’m going to have to ask you to make this your priority. We have no idea why he’s gone berserk: according to his therapist, he wasn’t displaying any real signs of this kind of aggression. I need to know what he’s thinking.”

“Am I being shipped down to look at the bodies?” The Wards all shift uncomfortably. Lisa does her best to be down the dark hiss of my inner demons.

“I do want you to talk to the staff there, but for now, I’m afraid these pictures will have to do.”

She gets out of her chair and walks forward to see what Piggot has for her: photographs of the bodies.

Even without using her power, she can tell how they died: sheer force, metal hands shoved through chests and steel fingers crushing necks. It’s visceral and immediate, and even the distance of a picture won’t help for long.

“I…” She licks suddenly dry lips, tries to swallow. “I don’t know how effective I’ll be. Pictures tend to be less clear. Not as much data for my power to pick up on.”

“Try.” Piggot urges. “I’m afraid I simply can’t show you the actual bodies right now.”

She nods, very aware of the crowd around her. She tries to focus on the pictures as much as she can, blocking out excess stimuli.

She breathes, and closes her eyes.

And inside, she grabs the clock and it begins to

_ Tick. _

_ Tick. _

_ Tick. _

I open my eyes. The photos rise into the air and swell in size, stretching and growing and expanding until they are my entire world. I step past the frame and into the scene. A road stretches before me on either side, grey gravel splitting the sea of dark green grass and twisting trees.

I am a jumble of emotions, poured on-top of each other like dis-organized puzzle pieces. It’s all a swirling buzz inside my head. Coherency is distant and clarity is only found in one thought: _Brockton Bay._ I know I must get there. That’s where The Mission is. Everything else is irrelevant.

There are people in front of me. Their lights hurt my eyes. Their voices sink into my ears and scrape around the insides of my skull. I hate them for this. They are getting in my way. _Nothing is allowed to get in my way._ If I cannot move around them, I will move through them.

The decision to kill comes less as a choice and more as an instinct as the bullets begin to fly. They are not a concern. I bolt forwards, my masterpieces carrying me faster than these faceless shades of blue can see. I barely even think about putting my hand through it, dark blue going black as I introduce red to the painting. More screaming. More gunshots. I want the noise to go away. I want peace. I won’t get peace until The Mission is done, and they are getting in the way of The Mission. They must be removed.

I remove them. I feel so little when I snap their necks and tear out their hearts. Instead, satisfaction comes as I am allowed to press on with my journey. With my Mission.

I have to get to Brockton Bay.

I have to Complete The Mission.

The fog swims in once more, and I go on autopilot once more. My body doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

Only The Mission does.

Lisa comes out of the recreation with the fog still inside of her head— her limbs don’t even feel like they’re ___there. ___She grabs her arms, silently assuring herself that she’s real.

“Well?” Piggot says. Lisa turns her head slowly, trying to remember who she is and why she’s making such a racket. She could pull open her ribcage so easily…

“I— he killed them because they got in his way. Nothing more. It’s the same impulse you have when you kick small stones out of your path. I don’t think he even recognized that they were human beings. He felt nothing when killing them. This wasn’t murder, it was— it was _gardening__. ___Cutting away obstacles. He doesn’t care about anything other than some objective he has.”

“And what is that?”

Lisa shrugs. “I don’t know yet. I need more information.”

“Then you’ll get it.” Piggot promises. “Gordian, are you still fine with being Oracle's assistant?”

“Naturally.”

“Then I’ll get you both down to Philadelphia as soon as possible. But for now, I want you to try and figure out what Jacked’s objective is. As for the rest of you: stay alert and report any sightings. I want this maniac caught before he can kill any more officers. Dismissed.” Lisa gathers up the photos even as Piggot hands her a file, making a beeline out of the room, Taylor following her out.

“Well?” Taylor asks, even as the rest of the heroes begin to trickle out. “What’s our first move?”

“Personal history. Murdering with your hands— that’s about as personal as you can get. It’s _intimate__. ___There’s a distance with a gun, even with a knife. It’s impersonal. To kill someone with your bare hands, even if they’re your tinkertech implants… he’s furious at ___something. ___This Mission he has… he’s here to kill _someone__. ___And he’s willing to drop other bodies to get to them.”

“Right. So… where to?”

“Where the heart is,” Lisa says, already flipping through the file and finding the address. “Home.”


	8. Chapter 8

Lisa finds an abandoned house—cold, empty and devoid of life save for the insects and plant growth. It’s a small, sad thing, boarded up and one story in both senses of the word. A decaying relic of a life that has been lost, wearing a thick layer of dust like a heavy cloak, shading everything gray with grime—it’s clear that no one has been here for years. It’s an empty shell, not a house. Hollow and lonely—abandoned, like an old toy that has been outgrown by its owner, left behind and forgotten in a dark closet.

(They had matching dolls, as children. _Jack and Jill went up the hill, and Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after. _She wonders for a moment what happened to those toys.)

Dust motes dance and drift in the air, illuminated by pale sunbeams. The wooden floors creak and groan under Lisa’s boots, the smell of must and decay swirling inside her lungs.

“...No one has lived here for years,” Taylor murmurs, dragging a finger across a table, examining the sheer volume of the dust. “With this amount of decay, at least three.”

“Which is roughly how long Jacked stayed at the parahuman asylum.” Lisa ducks into another room, which appears to have once been a kitchen. She walks over to the fridge, and—

“..._Someone’s _been here. There’s less dust on the fridge handle. Wiped clean, by the looks of it.”

Lisa rolls her arm back up into her sleeve, grips the doorknob, and pulls. The smell of rancid and rotting meat smacks her in the face, and she stumbles back and lands hard on the wooden floor. A breathless scream forces its way out of her throat as she stares at the still-decomposing head.

“Lisa, what’s...oh.” Even Taylor takes a moment to regain her composure in the face of a terrible death. “He’s been here.”

Lisa fights to keep the bile down even as her mind begins to churn. “That’s… that’s _a statement. _The head was deliberately left here for someone to find—as an indicator of an oath, or a threat. You don’t _do _this unless you’re trying to send a message. He’s already in Brockton. Which begs the question…” She slowly gets to her feet, inching back toward the open fridge. “Who are you, and why are you special enough to place inside a fridge?”

* * *

“The deceased's name is Katie Grayson. She was a college student attending an out-of-state university, home for the holidays. Twenty-four, majoring in economics and has surprisingly perfect teeth. Unfortunately, I can’t really narrow down the cause of death beyond decapitation.”

“Is it still decapitation if the head was _pulled _off, not severed?” Lisa asks, finding herself getting swept up by the coroner's morbidly jovial mood.

“Tomay-to, tomah-to.” He shrugs. “No real difference. Of course, I’m sure that it has significance for you.”

“This kind of murder would be viseral and brutal, even if the head removal was post-mortum,” Lisa elaborates. “You only do that if you _really _want to desecrate someone or to send a message. In this case, it may be both. Our killer _despised _Katie, saw her as something vile and demonic. She’s clearly connected to him somehow.”

“I’m afraid there’s no real clues here to indicate what that might be. Find the rest of the body and I may have more answers for you.”

Lisa nods again, shaking the coroner's hand and leaving the head behind her. She used her power as soon as she recovered, of course. But Jacked had been _meticulous _in how the head was removed—she only had the few pictures that Katie had posted of herself online to reconstruct the rest of her body, but her power couldn’t work without any data. The reconstruction was fuzzy, indistinct, like a damaged recording, the frames blurred and distorted. She will have no answer from her power.

Instead, she’ll have to rely on good, old-fashioned detective work. She’s almost grateful for the opportunity. Any chance to avoid using her power is a good one.

“Come on, Taylor,” she says, leading her friend (hopefully. Please god, let her have a friend—) onwards. “Let’s see what we can learn about Katie Grayson.”

* * *

Katie Grayson is—was, now—in a word, boring. No notable events, no real sign of anything abnormal or strange about her. Her hobbies were both common and harmless, and her choice in friends seemed perfectly normal. The only truly _odd _thing is—

“As far as I can tell, she has _zero _relation to Jacked.” Lisa frowns, looking up from her phone.

“They weren’t friends, no family relations, they didn’t even attend the same college. If they knew each other, it wasn’t something that they made public.”

“But they _must _have known each other, correct?” Taylor says, navigating through traffic. “It doesn’t make sense otherwise. Why risk going to the first place the authorities will look for you and plant the head of someone you don’t know in a fridge?”

“We’re assuming he’s rational. Even sane people aren’t rational all the time. Still, there’s usually some thread of logic, yeah. Most people need to be pretty highly motivated to kill another human being. Doubly so to mutilate the body. Either he’s just completely insane—which I don’t think he is—or he and Katie knew each other. It doesn’t add up otherwise.”

“The mathematics of human behavior tends to be paradoxical,” Taylor murmurs, a strange light in her eye. “Lots of unpredictable and ugly variables.”

“Well, Jacked has some numbers mixed up, that’s clear. In my reconstruction he shifts between non-responsive to between murderous in a blink.”

“How accurate are your reconstructions?” Taylor asks. “This is the first time I’ve seen you without detailed knowledge of the murderer’s mind.”

Lisa shrugs. “Depends on the amount of data I have available. For Jacked they’ve been...vague, given the lack of fresh evidence.” (She hates herself for the usage of “fresh”.)

“Has it ever pointed you in the wrong direction before?” Taylor asks.

“A few times, yeah. If I push it too hard without sufficient information, it could extrapolate in the wrong direction, and misinformation messes with it as well.”

“I see… Do you think that factors into his decision not to...send the whole package, as it were?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We can’t know, at this stage. Can’t even ask his family if he knew Katie, given that both of his parents are long dead.”

“No surviving relatives?”

“Not ones who would have relevant information. That’s why we’re heading to the airport: we need to talk to his psychiatrist as soon as possible.”

* * *

“Sander was a model patient,” Alisson Marrows says, her face appropriately grim. “Polite, kind, if a bit excitable at times. He was understandably eager to fix his Tinkertech. However, as time wore on, his… well, his inability to perform certain tasks began to grate on him. He became irritable, snappish. He stopped spending time with the others. I think—I think before his escape, I was the only one he still trusted. He became convinced that the doctors were deliberately keeping him from fixing his limbs which… wasn’t entirely inaccurate. We didn’t want him to hurt himself, intentionally or on purpose. I was the only one he still trusted, and I think that’s only because I didn’t force him on any medication. I…” Her eyes go downward as she radiates shame. “I just thought that he was expressing how frustrated he was. He’s only a young man. I never thought that he’d—”

“It’s okay, ma’am. If you had any way of knowing what he was planning on doing, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“I should have known. I should have seen it,” she insists. “I’m his psychiatrist. That’s my _job._”

“Ma’am, if I may ask…” Taylor interjects, leaning forwards. “How do you think he repaired his Tinkertech?”

“Well, we had other Tinkers come by when they could?—which wasn’t often, given our limited budget for that kind of thing—and they would try help him get past whatever issues he was struggling with. I don’t pretend to understand it. Despite his good behavior, we weren’t allowed to give him any tools with which he might hurt himself or others—standard protocol, you see. It was… oh, a few months ago that I began to notice remarkable improvement. Not using the crutches so much, not requiring help with picking things up. I thought it was just the other tinkers doing their magic.” Dr. Marrows sighs. “I should have been paying more attention. I should have realized something was wrong.”

“Tinkertech doesn’t even make sense to Tinkers themselves, sometimes. Don’t blame yourself.” Lisa says, shifting in her seat, trying to figure out how both to assuage the doctor’s guilt and get this over with as quickly as possible before she starts mirroring that, too. “Doctor, do you have any idea as to who Jacked would try to hurt? Did he ever mention having enemies or people who he despised?”

“No—Sander got angry, certainly, but that was towards the people he thought were blocking his recovery. He didn’t talk much about his life before the hospital— Being a cape or before I think it was too painful for him. Never mentioned any _enemies _or previous grudges. If he had any, he never told me.”

“Does the name Katie Grayson ring any bells?” Lisa asks.

“Katie… Grayson?” The doctor’s face furrows in confusion. “Sander never mentioned anyone by that name. Why?” Her face goes stiff. “Has… has he done something to her?”

“We found parts of her in his fridge,” Lisa admits. The doctor simply stares at her, mouth opening slightly in shock.

“...oh.” She swallows. “I—no, he never talked about her.” She hunches inward. “... How did she die?” Her voice is tiny; her face, a carefully contained explosion. Lisa _desperately _pushes against her power. She doesn’t need anyone else’s grief piled on top of her own.

(Twine burns against her neck. Her fingers are bloody and raw.)

“We’re still unsure, but...he decapitated her, at least.”

The doctor presses her hands into her face and simply breathes for the span of a minute. When she comes up, her eyes are watering.

“Why?” she asks. “Why would he hurt her?”

“We were hoping you’d know,” Lisa states, doing her best to be gentle. Dr. Marrows shakes her head.

“He never talked about anyone by that name. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Taylor assures her. “You’re not responsible for Jacked’s actions.”

“I think I am,” Dr. Marrows murmurs, staring at her hands and tracing the folded lines in her skin. “I think I am.”

* * *

They drop off Dr. Marrows at her temporary apartment and thank her for her assistance. Only minutes after they do so, they get the call.

“_We have another body.” _

This time, it’s a boy: Daniel Jackson, a young man in his thirties who had a promising career in astrophysics. He was well-loved by family and friends, and graduated top of his class from the local university. A self-made man, a happy man, a worthy man.

He now lies on a cold slab, with his heart ripped away and his ribcage torn out and twisted and re-inserted into the body to resemble a rose made from blood and bone, a love-letter written in a corpse, a scathing desertion of Daniel’s ability to love and remain loyal to love. A tender message and a howling declaration, love and hate tangled up together like branches thorns. Lisa stares at the body, relives killing him and over and over, hating him and loving him all at once, and yet—

And yet she cannot divine any solid reasoning behind his death beyond those emotions, burning in her like a funeral pyre, scorching her lungs from the inside out. No words of insight come.

“Lisa,” Taylor says, and Lisa looks up, staring into her with another’s heart pumping poison and passion into her veins. “How do we catch him?”

Lisa stares down at the body, phantom heat stinging her eyes.

“I don’t know.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lisa gets a little lost.

There’s a buzz of activity happening around her at the PRT headquarters, but it’s a world away from Lisa. The pain in her head and the aftereffects of her powers has buried her in a deep place, where her senses have been stuffed with cotton balls and phantom sensations. Reality is a distant, elusive thing.

Lisa reaches into the pockets of her costume, and of course she’d forgotten to grab her pain meds because really, it’s one of those days where she just completely fails at everything.

“Lost something?” Taylor asks.

“Do you have any painkillers?” Lisa responds, before promptly beating herself up because _why_ would Taylor have pain meds on her, stupid, _stupid _girl (_look at the freak, _the children laugh, pointing at the slip of a girl who spent all of her time looking out the window and sobbing at shadows).

“Sorry, no,” Taylor answers, predictably, because she’s not a fuck-up like Lisa who needs help managing her fucking power. “Do you need some?”

“Nevermind.” Lisa may be an idiot but she wants to be a bother even less. (Especially because she can’t even figure out Jacked, not at all. Failure. _Failure_).

Taylor’s frown grows. “Seriously, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine.” Except that she’s not, because the ache in her temples is really starting to crest, and she thinks she remembers grabbing the bottle on the way out the door this morning, but maybe that’s something she just dreamt up (or maybe it’s something someone else remembers doing, and Lisa’s just reflecting them). Lisa’s not sure there’s a difference right now.

She can’t get a steady grip on her thoughts— they all run towards self-abuse or something distinctly _not _herself. So she opts to just _leave_, gathering herself up and moving out towards the exit.

“Lisa?” It takes her a moment to register that Taylor’s following her. Lisa doesn’t understand why she’s doing that.

“I’m going home,” she says, telling it more to herself than to the other Ward. “I can’t… _think._”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Taylor asks, voice soft and full of an attempt at understanding. _Yes. No. I don’t fucking know. _Lisa can feel a scream, perched right under her throat, swelling up inside her chest and further filling her brain with static (and the thoughts of a dead woman, dead man, dead girl walking).

Taylor, through some impossible act of empathy, merely nods and in an impossible act of cruelty, hugs her. (The last hug she’d really, _really _had, was from— ) Lisa thinks she’s going to burst, but it’s over fast and then she’s moving out of the building before anything else can further send her into a tailspin. Florescent lights flare and morph into streetlamps as she walks through the halls, and then she’s Katie Grayson, dragged into a dark alleyway, her murder mixed with another’s from two years ago that ended the same way for both women: a detached head and a still heart. Lisa doesn’t trust herself to drive so she doesn’t drive— she’ll regret it in the morning but she’ll regret a lot of things in the morning. She somehow manages to get into a car— did she hail a cab? Call an Uber? She’s not entirely sure but she doesn’t care. Her power is going overtime, reflecting villain and victim all at once, and she’s not entirely sure how many times she’s killed and been killed until she finally reaches a bed and collapses into uneasy unconsciousness.

* * *

When she wakes up, the headache isn’t gone— she keeps her eyes closed for what feels like five minutes before she forces herself to get out of bed. She moves for the cabinet where she keeps the Tylenol— where is it? Where is it? The sunbeams streaming in through the windows sets her corneas (Corona Pollentia, the part of her brain that wants her to die or to spread death) with knives forged from light and push straight into her brain (bodies buried beneath the sunflowers, a solar calendar made from bone.)

She pushes her fingers against her eyelids even as she searches for the medicine she _knows _she brought with her on the plane trip, she always keeps a healthy stock— Thoughts nag at her, but Lisa can’t piece them together, no matter how important they might be. Where is her relief?

She ends up turning her apartment inside out, but she can't find the damn meds.

* * *

Lisa staggers back into the PRT HQ, having stopped by a drug store and swallowed what was probably more than healthy amounts of painkillers, but at least her headache has gone down to manageable levels. She had to take another ride, which was really eating into her funds, but Taylor hadn’t answered her phone this morning (and Lisa is still too unsure about their...friendship to feel confident enough to do more than text.)

There’s a certain level of trepidation she feels, walking back through the glass doors and faux-white halls. She can’t escape this— the feeling of being a rat trapped in a cage, of being Sisyphus, doomed to forever roll her boulder of burdens up a hill, only to have them crash back down and crush her all over again. Her heart is squeezed by tension, and she can’t relax her shoulders. (She avoids having her back to anyone. She got stabbed on a case once and never forgot how easy it was to slip a knife in.)

As always, she goes to the break room, bustling towards wherever Taylor and her wondrous coffee is. And as always, the presence of the other Wards in the room grates against her nerves, people she couldn’t simply ignore or scare away. She hates how they glance at her out of the corner of their eyes, how Kid Win shuffles his feet, how Shadow Stalker’s eyes lock onto her service pistol, how Clockblocker’s conversation always suffered a lull when she entered a room. She finds her favorite bit of wall and leans into it, waiting for Taylor to show up.

...she’s not here.

...shit.

Lisa pulls out her phone and grapples with shooting Taylor another text— hadn’t answered her first one. Maybe she’s busy? Or doesn’t want to talk? Or maybe (she is tired of her) she’s in transit, or something.

“Hello, Oracle.” A voice jolts her out of her spiral: It’s Gallant, or rather…

“Trusting me with your identity already?” He just smiles and extends a hand.

“Call me Dean.” Lisa returns the shake. “How have you been doing, Lisa? If you’re okay with me calling you that.”

“T’s fine.” Lisa mumbles. “I’m… I’m fine. Case is at a bit of a lull. Can’t figure out what Jacked’s deal is— he’s erratic, unfocused. I’m not entirely sure he’s even thinking at all. Just lashing out, more impulse than anything else.”

“I’m sure you’ll catch him,” Gallant responds, voice patient and warm and _irritatingly _calm. Unease rakes against the insides of her skin.

“Thanks,” she says, more out of reflex than anything. “How have things been on your side of the war?”

“The Empire has been pushing for territory pretty hard, recently. We’ve gotten into a few minor scuffles, recently. Nothing we can’t handle, but it doesn’t bode well.”

Lisa can’t help but doubt that the scuffles were, in fact, minor. She’d barely even seen the Wards at HQ over the last… Jesus, had she really been here more than a month? Time had become a little… loose, recently. In fact, Lisa realizes that she really should respond, probably. “Well. Stay safe. You’re…” She desperately fishes for a compliment that’s both polite and true. “You’re one of the good ones.” It’s the lamest thing she’s ever said but she really doesn’t wanna shittalk the other wards while they’re still in the room.

Alas, her efforts are all for nothing, as Shadow Stalker snorts from the couch. “What are the rest of us, chopped liver?” Lisa chooses not to dignify that with a response (even as someone else imagines ripping Sophia’s liver _right _out of her stomach, the meat fresh and rich. She does her best to suppress the echo of Browbeat’s killer.)

Clockblocker chimes in, “Yeah, new girl. What are _we_?”

“Co-workers.” Lisa answers again, desperately wishing she could develop the power of teleportation.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you on patrol,” Clockblocker continues, and Lisa knows that this is going nowhere good fast.

“She’s not even on the schedule, dipshit. Piggot thinks she’s too _delicate_,” Shadow Stalker drawls, and Lisa thinks she can hear storms brewing inside her ears.

“Sophia, knock it off,” Vista grumbles. “She has a different job and you know it.”

“Yeah, cause getting waited on hand and foot by Hebert is such a _difficult _job.” Sophia’s eyes flash with malicious delight even as she sports a small smirk. “Tell me, new girl, what’d you two get up to when you spent the night together?”

Lisa feels something snap inside her chest.

And then she’s someone else, her spine going taut of not her own accord, her veins flooding with ice, lips curling into a sharpened smile that belonged on someone else’s face.

Sophia Hess,” she says, and those aren’t her words, syllables as sharp as knives. “Do you think it’s _smart _to piss off the girl who thinks about killing people for a living?”

The silence in the recc room is so all-consuming, Lisa could almost hear her own imagination running wild, thinking about all the ways she could _rip out her throat. _The way the cartilage would fold under her teeth, the way the blood would paint the air with that delectable copper smell.

And Lisa sees Sophia seeing her own death, and the Ward _smiles. _

And that is when Piggot’s voice rings over the intercom, jolting Lisa back into her own body.

* * *

_Oracle. We need you downtown. Gordian’s found a body._

“This is how you found her?” Lisa asks, staring at the corpse. This time, Jacked had opted to just beat this one to death. A vivid reconstruction, seeing punch after punch, a desperate struggle to live against an opponent she had no chance against. Bones breaking under precise hands, jaw shattering with one blow, hate so powerful Lisa could taste it on her teeth. _Disgusting, _is the word that rang in her mind. _A pig to be slaughtered. The world is better off without you. _

“Yes. This is my… morning route.” Taylor says, gratefully accepting the shock blanket. It’s different, seeing her in civilian clothing. There’s a strange… disconnect between the professional and utilitarian warrior, Gordian, and the simple civilian, Taylor Hebert. In her plain-t shirt and simple sweatpants, she looks...not ordinary (never ordinary, not her), but more… delicate. Less sharp. Lisa allows herself to be selfish and sits next to the refinined girl, not quite daring enough after her slip-up earlier to touch her hand. “I go jogging, to clear my head. I— well, I’ve been on this route hundreds of times. It was rather impossible not to notice the smell. Or the—” Taylor swallows, and Lisa understands.

“At least you didn’t throw up on the body,” she says, doing a terrible job of comforting the girl. “I did that, the first few weeks on the job.”

Taylor snorts. “Well, at least we have that in common.” She sighs. “Sorry for not answering your texts, I was—” “It’s okay,” Lisa rushes out. “No big deal. I get it, trust me.” Taylor nods and looks down at her shoes. Lisa desperately looks for words to say, and only comes up with: “I feel like I’ve dragged you into my world.” Taylor looks up at her, and closes the distance, hands wrapping around hers.

“I think I got here on my own. I’ve been a Ward for a while, Lisa. This isn’t my first body.” She then gives a very real, and very wonderful smile. “But I’m happy I’m in it with you.” Hope springs to life inside Lisa’s chest, but she doesn’t let it speak. She can’t ruin this. She _won’t _ruin this.

Fortunately, a PRT officer comes running before she can. He’s holding a phone, and jams it in Lisa’s face. She just takes it.

“Oracle speaking—” “_Help me,_” Dr. Marrows whispers. “_He’s in my house_.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lisa finally tracks down Jacked.

Lisa's blood froze even as her brain kicked into overdrive. “Are you safe?” she whispered, signaling Taylor and the officers to get in the car, mouthing _Dr. Marrows. _

“_He’s— he’s killed the guards._” Marrows breathes out. “_I’m in the closet. He hasn’t found me yet.” _

“We’re en route. Put your hand over your mouth, breathe through your nose. Don’t talk, but stay on the line.” She takes the phone away from her face, hissing at the driver. “Do we have anyone closer to her?” “Velocity, Dauntless and Armsmaster are dealing with a situation downtown. No one else could make it there faster than we could,” he responds, sirens flaring and blazing through the streets, painting the city with blues and reds ripped from a nightmare. Lisa mutters a curse and goes back to the phone.

There’s nothing she can do but wait and hope.

* * *

The van barely even stops before Lisa’s barrling out the door, pistol in hand. She notes the two dead PRT officers outside and charges through the empty space where a door should have been— Jacked’ work, no doubt. Only shards and splinters remain.

“Sander Roos!” she shouts, clearing the entry hall. “Oracle, PRT! You’re surrounded! Hands on your—” She rounds the corner.

Sander Roos is very, very dead, holding his own ripped out heart in his hand. His corpse is still smiling, even when caked with his own blood. Lisa’s power tickles her brain— he’d died happy. Believing that he had finally done what he set out to do, proved that he was worthy. Mission complete.

Slumped against a wall, shivering and crying, is poor doctor Marrows, covered in blood (and what appears to be vomit) herself. She catches sight of Lisa and starts stammering.

“He— he—” She can’t force the words out. Lisa gently approaches, putting the gun away.

“Shh,” she says, kneeling down to the doctor. “It’s okay.”

“He— he said he _loved me.”_ She gasped. “That he was— that’s why—”

“It’s not your fault.” Lisa murmurs,signaling for the troopers to tend to the bodies. “His actions were on him.”

“He was my _patient_,” she gasps. “I should have… should…” Dr.Marrows trails off into sobbing, leaning into Lisa’s shoulder. Lisa lets her. She’s been here, before. “I-it’s all m-my f-fault.”

“It’s not your fault he chose you.”

“Is it?” Marrow whispers, throat hoarse from tears. “Is it?” Lisa simply holds the doctor, and watches the bodies go.

This wasn’t Marrow’s failure. It was hers, plain and simple. She failed. (Useless. You should have jumped and spared everyone the trouble.) Taylor comes in, sees the scene before her, and wisely goes back outside to call Piggot. To report their failure.

Failure, failure, failure.

Why can’t she ever _save _anyone? That’s all Lisa really wants. To stop this moment from happening. The shattering of a good person.

She holds Marrow a little more tightly, and lets her mind drift with the flashing sirens.

* * *

Piggot doesn’t yell at her, surprisingly, even though it really is all her fault. The stern woman takes her report without question, and then gives her another card for a PRT therapist. Lisa doesn’t understand _why. _Dr. Marrows is the one in shock, not her. She doesn’t (want to) need to talk to a therapist. What she _needs _is to do something. To save _someone. _

The card goes in the trash as soon as she gets home, on her way to the shower. Some of the blood had gotten on her hair. She thinks about how fucking depressing it is that she doesn’t even react to that.

How had she gotten here? Where had everything gotten so fucked up?

Well. She knew that, actually. (The sound of rope creaking, a ceiling fan moaning. Fingers, bloody and raw.) She steps out of the shower, feeling marginally better.

She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do with herself now. (Except maybe jump out the window. Would the fall kill her from that height? Probably not. Idiot.) She’s never been good at killing time.

Killing time.

An idea skitters at the back of her skull.

If Jacked had been in love with the doctor, and that was why he went on a killing spree, why the hell didn’t he just stay at the Asylum? Why go to Brockton Bay? What was the point of killing those other people? At first glance, they were random acts of aggression from a broken mind, but… Electricity races up her spine as the gears of her brain begin to churn. She’s of her bed and to her phone, dialing Taylor even as she begins to suspect what she already knew to be true, she just wasn’t _seeing _it before—

“Taylor, I need you to get me the victim’s medical records, ASAP.”

“_Has something come up?” _

“Maybe. Have a hunch. Just email me the files. Sending you my address now.”

She sends the text and finds that her body wants to follow her brain in activity, and begins pacing around inside her tiny apartment. The common theme connecting the victims had been betrayal: something to do with relationships. Inability to remain loyal. Jacked only had one real reason to kill them, and that only made sense if—

Her phone buzzed, and she went to her computer, swiftly opening up the email, opening up the three pdf’s and searching for a name.

It comes up.

Fuck.

“Taylor. Where’s Dr. Marrow right now?”

* * *

“You know, I never trusted therapists.” Dr. Marrow screams and turns around to see Lisa, sitting in the chair of her new apartment. The woman had just emerged from a shower, hair still wet and eyes wide with shock. “I’ve been thrown at them before. But the issue is, it’s hard to do therapy when you know all of the tricks. You see right through the deflections, the hidden questions. By requirement, therapists need to be good at manipulation. Their patients need to feel safe, but the questions you need to ask are hard, so you have to hide them. Learn to twist words around, poke and prod to get them talking but never make them feel uncomfortable. So… you lie. And you are a very good therapist, aren’t you?” Dr. Marrow’s face goes slack.

“What exactly are you insinuating?”

“Katie Grayson and Daniel Jackson and the third victim, Veronica Lodge, were all former patients of yours. Jacked would have no reason to see them as threats to his...affections for you unless someone told him about them. And you’re the only one who could.” It’s a strange transformation. Almost like watching a snake shed a skin. Away goes the frightened, confused woman who’d watched someone she cared for rip his heart out, and revealed is the cold, alien thing underneath. She sits down in the opposite chair, posture relaxed, as if Lisa hadn’t just accused her of manipulation and murder.

“They were former patients of mine, yes.” Marrows admits. “Sander’s obsession with me...well. It’s not hard to imagine how he might take that.”  
  
“So he was a loaded gun, and you pointed him in the right direction?” The doctor smiles.  
  
“And here I thought you were on my side.”

“You gave quite a performance. Almost had me fooled.”

“Almost?”

“You should have had Sander kill a few other unrelated people. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been so easy to realize the connection.”

“Hm. Well, it’s a good theory, I suppose.” Something was wrong. She was far too relaxed.

“Now comes the part where I arrest you.” Lisa states.

“On what grounds? I haven’t killed anyone, and the only person who could have told you otherwise is dead. And even if that wasn’t the case…” The doctor chuckles. Lisa rankles at the sound and stands up.

“Hands on your head.” She demands, pulling out her cuffs. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“No.” The doctor says, still smiling. “In fact, I think you should _take a seat.” _

Lisa does.

...bingo. She’d been right after all.

“For someone so smart, you’re really quite foolhardy.” The doctor gets up, approaching her with a lazy pace. “_Don’t move.” _Lisa goes ramrod still, muscles locked in place by the Master power, which evidently required vocal commands. Good. She could still think clearly as well, so it appeared to be— “It’s easier to give physical orders. Took me a while to work on Sander until he couldn’t tell left from right without my saying so, but it’s doable. Just requires a lot of conversation and time.” Ah. So nice of her to explain. It’s keeping Lisa’s mind off of the panic. Marrows grins, all knives, eyes full of malice and madness. “Which I’m sure we’ll have a lot of. Won’t be hard, to get myself transferred as your doctor. And you’re such a pretty little thing.” Hands drift across Lisa’s face, and despite herself and what she _knows _to be true her heart rate spikes, instinctual hatred of being touched and fear of what could very easily happen if this goes wrong springing up and and there’s a finger drifting across her lips and oh _fuck _no— “You really shouldn’t have come alone, dear.”

“I didn’t.”

Marrows doesn’t so much as blink before she gets absolutely _decked _by a furious looking Taylor, radiating anger like a living furnace. The Master collapsed like a stray puppet, and was swiftly gagged and cuffed with more force than was strictly necessary. Lisa let out an explosive breath she didn’t realize she had even been holding.

“That,” Taylor says, whilst securing the doctor, “was possibly the stupidest thing I have seen you do yet, and you’ve openly mocked serial killers before.”   
  
“You agreed to the plan,” Lisa grumbled. “We needed her to admit that she fucked with his head.” Lisa experimentally twitched her fingers, and to her relief, her muscles under her own control once more. She got out of the damn chair. “Only way to do that was to force her to use her power on me.”  
  
“What if she didn’t have a power?” The rest of the PRT officers came in, picking up the unconscious villain and moving her out to the awaiting van,

“I was like ninety-five percent sure she did.”

“We _really _need to talk about your bad habit of throwing yourself in harm’s way.”  
  
“Isn’t that the job?” Lisa’s out of the house, dialing Piggot, feeling oddly satisfied for having been under a Master power a few seconds ago.

“So, she killed the others because they left her?” Taylor asks, deftly changing the subject.

“Dr. Marrows was the one with the obsession, not the other way around. Couldn’t handle the fact that the others left, and when she got powers and Sander tossed in her lap, she saw an opportunity to punish them for the perceived slight.”

Taylor shivers slightly. Lisa can’t help but agree.

“Hey, Piggot,” Lisa says, surprising herself with her own cherry tone. “We got her.”

* * *

For the second time that day, Lisa goes home and collapses onto her bed. She turns, and stares at the face of Sander Roos, caked with his own blood, eyes still full of induced love.

_Thank you. _He murmurs.

“You’re welcome,” she whispers back.

She falls asleep and dreams of hushed words and frozen bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I'm so happy to be done with this fucking arc you have no idea I'm so tired please let me sleep forever new chapter coming maybe


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lisa finds God.

Lisa picks up the knife. It’s weighted well. Solid in her hands. She tests the edge with her finger, and to her delight, it takes barely any pressure at all before blood begins oozing from her digit. She licks away the crimson, savoring the coppery tang, and turns to her cutting board. She carves away stripes of pinkish-red flesh away, soft crimson juices oozing out with every slice, the meat easily parting beneath her knife.

The carving is her favorite part. It’s so….pliable. Delicate. And quiet. She liked the soft thud and quiet sound of division. It’s relaxing, being in complete control, with no one to disturb her. No orders, no demands, no flies buzzing and fluttering about her head, always needing more and more and more.

Now it’s just her and the meat.

She picks up a slice, and drops it into her mouth, relishing the tasting soft texture and rich taste. With a contented sigh, she moves aside the rest of the meat, packing it up into a container.

Now, onto the rest.

She turns and smiles at Fredick Micheals, eyes wide but shut with death, stomach carved open and organs lovingly removed, replaced with pennies and bamboo. He’d look lovely, once she was finished. She picks up the knife.

Lisa wakes up with an aborted scream, and stumbles into the bathroom still tasting pork and flesh. She only just finishes vomiting her dinner into the toilet when she gets the call from Piggot.

* * *

I know where she will be. After all, she gave me her address. I also know that she won't be in any state to fight what's coming next. I'm glad for that. I have no desire to cause unnecessary suffering, only the swift and sudden death of the monster I have come to dispatch. Picking the lock is easy enough. I've practiced many, many times.

I'm inside her house, and soon enough, she comes to find me. There's muted surprise in her face, and it is the last thing she'll ever feel. I lunge, sinking the knife deep into her gut. She leans into me, and I hold her as gently as I can while twisting the blade, bleeding her out. I whisper words of assurance into her ears. it's not her fault, what happened to her. But she must die. God has preordained it, and I am his humble servant. As her movements slow and become mere twitches, I pull back to look into her eyes. Slowly, I watch the life drain out of them and become empty, hollow things, devoid of the darkness I saw swarming inside her soul like flies. I have scattered them. She is free now.

And then, all at once, I feel it. The peace that God has promised me. The world becomes blissfully _still _as I drown in the purpose of what I have done. The quiet is rapturous and holy, like those rare moments in church where no one spoke, all heads bowed in prayer, and the melody of such nothingness sang to me in a choir more beautiful than any mortal ever could. In this moment, God tells me once more that I am doing His work, that I am an instrument of His will, and I could not be happier.

I sink into that feeling, adrift in serenity. Eventually I come back, and I remind myself that my work is not yet finished. I must make an example out of her. The demons must know I am coming for them. I drag the body towards the nearest fan, and I retrieve the rope from my satchel. It doesn’t take long to position her up, nor to carve the message with the same knife I used to gut her onto her back. I take a step back to once more examine what I have done. This is my crusade. My calling. My holy mission.

This is my design.

Lisa doesn’t know where she is. The world is muted and distant, blurring before her eyes, and she couldn’t be happier. That all-consuming serenity has come back with her, and she feels better than she’s ever felt before, rapturously hollow. She doesn’t even feel like she’s awake anymore.

_Row, Row, Row your boat, gently down the stream… Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Life is but a dream… _

She giggles at the silly little song. All hard and painful things seem so far away. Suddenly, the body doesn’t bother her anymore. In fact… from this angle the crimson is so pretty. Silent bells sing in her mind as she looks up to catch a moonbeam, and within its pure light she beholds the majesty of a heavenly host, harmonizing in the impossibly powerful silence to praise His name.

_Hallelujah. _

“Lisa?”

Why is someone talking to her? Can’t they see? Can’t they see how beautiful it all is? She has saved this poor girl from a fate worse than death, and now she’s back in His hands, where she belongs. Why can’t they let her be?

“Lisa, can you hear me?”

She doesn’t want to. The voice is grating and _ordinary, _impure and ugly, and suddenly she hates it. She wants to silence it, grab that knife and bury it in the irrantant’s neck so that she might once more experience the ecstasy of nothingness that follows the kill.

“Lisa, are you okay?”

But she can’t. She has to _know _that the other is one of _them _first. One of the demons. So she says that she’s fine and lets the other take her away from her work, still clinging to that fading quiet. This plain, simple world has come back into focus, and now the humdrum buzz of life invades once more, discordant notes and harsh screeching. She frowns, and the other leads her further away, outside the house, where the great expanse of a black sky is dressed with stars, and Lisa can see Him everywhere. She shivers with delight. _Here I am, Lord._

“Lisa.” The voice is hushed now, and she is grateful. Softer is better. “What do you see?”

“Angels.” Lisa says, smiling so wide she felt as if she could shatter. And then she _does_, shuddering and shaking and collapsing as her brain finally manages to escape that wonderful, wonderful peace. Taylor’s arms wrap around her and pull her close, giving Lisa a shield from the world as she begins to sob.

“Why are you crying?” Taylor asks, her voice ever so soft, breath tickling Lisa’s ears.

“I’ve never felt so happy.” Lisa whispers back, body still trembling like a leaf in a gale. Now that the alien sense of serenity and purpose is gone, she feels cold and empty and _she wants it back. _“And that terrifies me.”

“Why does it terrify you?” Lisa can’t get the words out. That would make it too real. She just borrows deeper into Taylor’s arms and tries to block out her own thoughts.

_Because I think I’d do anything to feel like that again._

* * *

The deceased’s name is Sabah Madi. She had been a local cape. No fights, no grudges. A rogue, which has gotten rarer and rarer, these days. She’d had a not in-considerable amount of anesthesia in her system, along with ibuprofen. Only just returned from minor surgery when her home had been broken into, and she was subsequently strangled, stabbed and hung like a ragdoll with a message carved into her back: _22:18_. Lisa isn’t catholic, but she knows a bible verse when she sees one. It doesn’t take long to find out the intended message that had been sent through murder:

_Suffer not a witch to live. _

She absorbs all of this information and then takes a moment to breathe, swigging a bit of Taylor’s coffee. The girl had been kind enough to bring some in a thermos, and Lisa isn’t a gambling woman, but she’d make a sizable bet it’s the only reason she’s still standing.

“So.” Taylor states, her voice quiet. “_Victim _is a parahuman this time.”

“We’re not invincible. And for all we know, the killer is one as well.”

“Hm.” Taylor frowns. “Lisa, are… are you okay?” _No. _Lisa wants to scream. _I’m really, really not. I’ve got so many serial killers inside my head that I’m not sure where they end and I begin. _

“Yeah.” She says, rubbing at the space where her nose transformed into her forehead. “I just didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

“I’ve got more coffee in the microwave.” Taylor confirms, and Lisa tries her best to give her a smile. “You’re too good for me.” Taylor glows at the compliment, and some of the fog lifts from Lisa’s head. It’s...nice. To have her words heal instead of hurt.

“I think I’m just the right amount.” The small smile that Taylor gives is far more graceful. “Now, what’s the word on this one?”

“Well,” Lisa says, sighing. “Obviously religious in nature. He knew that she was a parahuman, and was coming back from an appointment and would be less alert, so he either has access to her schedule or worked at the hospital she got surgery at.”

“Which is?”

“Brockton General. I’m having the people who were aware of Sabah’s operation sent to me so we can do some questioning.”

“Right.” Taylor said, lifting herself off of the couch and going over to the microwave, plucking out the thermos and handing it to Lisa. “Hope it doesn’t take as long as the interviews for Clayton’s case.”

“Nah. Not nearly as many suspects.” She takes a long swig, and her brain lights up as she fulfills her addiction. She might actually consider moving in with Taylor for the coffee alone.

“Oh, thank god.” Taylor tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking oddly bashful. “So. Any plans for the weekend?”

“Sleeping.” Lisa deadpans.

“There’s a joke I could make here, but I won’t out of respect for you.” Taylor’s grin turns slightly mischievous. “On a completely unrelated note, I was wondering if you’d like to come over when we get off of work.” Lisa has an idea of what the joke would have been, and grins despite herself.

“I suppose I could force you to deal with me for a few more hours. More uno?”

“Actually, I was hoping we could watch the new adaptation of Frankenstien.”

“Is it one of those schlocky action reboots?”

“I have _standards.” _Taylor states, faux-offense perfectly acted on her face. “It’s a musical, actually.”

“Huh. Wouldn’t think Frankenstein would work as a musical.”

“Neither did I, but I was hoping we could find out if it does together.”

“Assuming work doesn’t take over, sure.” She hates the fact that her heart won’t stop running a hundred miles an hour. She hates the fact that she _doesn’t know how to do this. _(No playdates for her. No midnight conversations with friends. Only the dead and the damned.) Her phone begins buzzing, oddly enough, jolting her out of the moment. “Excuse me for a minute.”

Taylor nods as Lisa connects the call, walking out of the room and into an unoccupied hallway.

“This is Lisa Wilbourn.”

“_You really don’t check caller ID, do you?” _Lily’s voice crackles through the phone, and Lisa’s heart sinks as the old pain bubbles up.

“Oh. Hi, Lily.”

“_Hey, stranger. Wanted to check in. How are you doing down there?” _Lisa swallows.

“I’m doing fine. They’re keeping me busy.”

“_Not too busy, I hope.” _There’s a buried accusation in those words: _you didn’t even text. _And Lisa knows she didn’t, and she does feel awful about it but everything about her relationship with Lily had pain attached to it so it was just easier to say nothing at all sometimes.

_“_A Ward got killed, Lily. They want answers.”

“_And you’ll get them. You always do.” _The connection is _rough, _full of pops and hisses and empty noises. “_Just make sure to take care of yourself.” _

“Same to you.” Lisa murmurs. She’s always afraid that she’s going to get a call about an encounter with March that had gone south. “How have you been?”

“_Oh, you know. New York doesn’t really change. The people do.” _There’s a small pause. “_We miss you, up here.” _

“No need to lie, Lily.”

_“**I **miss you.” _Lily amends. “_But don’t think the others don’t care. They do, they just—” _

“Think I’m a freak.” Lisa grumbles.

“Everyone does.”

_“Not everyone.” _Lisa’s eyes glance at the door that hid Taylor from her view.

“Not everyone.” She concedes.

“_Oh? Made a friend down in bootleg Boston?” _

“I— I think so, yeah.”

“_That’s great!” _Her exuberance carries easily across the connection (Lisa wants Lily to talk about _her _with such a clear smile in her voice.) “_What’s her name?” _

“Gordian. She’s, uh. She’s nice.”

“_Come oooon. Spill. You never compliment people.” _

“She, uh. She flirts with me. A lot.”

_“Oh my god. And you flirt back, right?”_

“I’m—” Lisa bites her tongue down. “I just want to be friends. Right now.” _I wanted **you **to flirt back but you weren’t interested, remember? _

“_That’s valid. Still, nothing wrong with a brief hookup, right?” _

“I don’t want to complicate our working relationship, and once the case is over I’ll get sent back to New York— ”

“_You could always ask for a transfer.” _And she _could, _but that’s not the point. The point is that whatever she has with Taylor is strange and weird and she doesn’t know what the _fuck _she’s doing and any overtures on her part could bring this all crumbling down because she doesn’t know what Taylor sees in her and she’s afraid of ruining it—

“_Lisa? Hello?” _

“Sorry,” Lisa mumbles. “Spaced. What’s up?”

_“I was just… nevermind. I have to go, but it was nice to hear from you. Stay in touch?”_

“Sure.”

“_Bye, Lisa.”_

“Goodbye, Lily.” She always says the full goodbye at the end. Just in case.

She walks back in the room, trying not to let the tangled knot in her chest show on her face. “Sorry about that, Tay—”

“Lisa?” Lisa spins to look at Taylor, still dressed in full costume, helmet firmly on her shoulders.

“When did you leave the rec room?” she asks, bewildered. “I didn’t even hear the door open.”

Taylor tilts her head, what’s visible of her face quizzical.

“Lisa, I haven’t seen you since the crime scene. I had to go do a patrol, remember?”

“...Oh. Sorry. My bad.”

“Li—” She blows right past Taylor. She can’t talk about this. She can’t, She (has finally lost she’s loosing her mind fuck fuck _fuck) _just can’t. She leaves the building and goes straight home. She tries to sleep but can’t, and instead spends the night staring at old text messages and wishing that she were anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallelujah.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lisa goes to work. She doesn't talk about it.

Lisa doesn’t want to think about it.

So she doesn’t. And she’s really, really good at not thinking about it (except, of course, she’s not. Pink elephants, and all that.) She’s even better at not looking at Taylor as they drive to the hospital (even if she feels Taylor’s quick glances like she feels pennies sliding into her skull, a piercing pain) staring at the city flashing by and trying to become as empty and unreadable as the blurs of grey and faded yellow. Every flash of her haggard reflection when the light dims enough is a cold shock of lightning in her veins, sparking synapses with scenes of her screaming, crying last night as she— _stop. _

She’s not thinking about it.

They arrive at Brockton Mercy General in short order, a rare example of Taylor’s nerves getting the better of her. The ride had been fast and jerky, and damning silent. Of course, that last one is partially Lisa’s fault. Her chest tightens, but she presses on with the silence. She can’t trust herself to not say the wrong thing, especially not after yesterday.

(She can’t be crazy. She just can’t.)

She’s always hated hospitals. The faux-sterility rankels at her senses, the thin facade of cleanliness. Dirt on the whites, faded browns on the tiles, sickly sweet scents of illness mixed with antiseptic and bleach. Doctors trying to smile despite the bags under their eyes, a play at friendliness even as they ask for insurance and for any history of instability in her family, and for any previous medication even as they shove antidepressants at her like she’s in danger of burying the stethoscope down their throats.

(She doesn’t like doctors. Or medication. And all things considered, could anyone blame her? Medication means that there’s something _wrong. _And with her job, she’s not allowed to have something be _wrong._ There’s not allowed to be anything _wrong _with her.)

_**You’re not one of **them**...are you, Sarah?**_

* * *

They meet the first doctor they’re set up to interview outside of his office.

“Doctor Jackson.” Taylor shakes his hand. Lisa doesn’t. “You were one of the doctors who assisted Sabah Madi’s surgery, yes?”

“Yes, I was.” He confirms, pushing up his glasses. “Remarkably polite patient.”

“Remarkably.” Lisa echoes. He shifts, pants creasing along with his skin as discomfort rolls off of him, dull brown eyes glancing away, brushing back pepper-and-salt hair. He coughs and continues.

“You must understand, a majority of patients coming in for surgery tend to be…antsy. Especially ones without healthcare. Lots of questions, concerns.”

“Was she?” Taylor asks.

“No.” Dr. Jackson reports, shaking his head to emphasize. “Calm, charming, even. Honestly, one of the most relaxing surgeries I’ve ever done. Very simple repair of some nasty cuts. We didn’t strictly need the anesthesia, but she asked for it.” His face turned sobering. “She...had a few other injuries. Minor bruising of the ribs. Concerning, but sadly not uncommon.” He takes a solid breath before going on. “We asked her about it, but she was...well, close-lipped about it. Unfortunately, nothing really we could do.” He sighs, and gives into guilt-driven exhaustion, crouching forwards to rub his temple. “I should have done more.”

“It’s not your fault she was murdered.” Taylor assures. The doctor scoffs.

“I know. I just—” he sighs. “Wishful thinking. At any rate, I’m afraid I really don’t know who killed her.”

“No co-workers who might have had an issue with Ms. Madi?”

“None that I can think of.” He shrugs. “And it wouldn’t have been _difficult _to learn she was scheduled for surgery. We keep records of that rather high on our priority list. And we have the patient come in a minimum of 2 hours beforehand, so who—” he stumbles over his words, “whoever killed her would have...would have had advanced notice.”

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Jackson. May I have your card, in case we need to get back in contact with you?”

He gives her the card, and Lisa very quickly leaves his office.

“Was it him?” Taylor asks, eager to talk but afraid to— stop. No psychoanalyzing friends. (Could she still be friends with Taylor? Should she? What right did she have to seek a relationship when she was still—)

“Too early to tell,” she announces trying to interrupt her own thoughts, “he’s sincere about being sorry, but he’d hardly be the first killer to do so. We have more people to interview anyway.” Lisa walks off, leaving Taylor to catch up.

Keep it professional. If she keeps it professional, she’ll be okay.

* * *

“Everything went smoothly during Ms.Madi’s operation.” Elias Everett says, taking a sip from his cafeteria coffee and grimacing at the taste. Lisa could empathize. “I’m— told she was found hanging?”

“Where did you hear that?” Lisa asks, wondering if it’s really gonna be _that _easy. The surgeon blinked at her, bright blues confused. “Didn’t you see the article? It went up only a few hours ago.” He gives a faux shiver. “She looked...well, hell of a way to go.”

Goddamn motherfucking bitch. She grits her teeth. They had a rat. She _hated _rats. “No.” She hisses out. “I did _not _see it.”

“Ah, well.” He brings a hand up to scratch at the base of his blonde hairline “Sorry.”

“It’s. Fine.” She insists. “Are you aware of anyone who might have wanted to do Ms. Madi harm?”

“I mean, this is Brockton Bay.” He offers. “Hardly be hard to find someone who wouldn’t. The article suggested—”

“I am not interested in what the article suggested.” Lisa stops him, glaring behind her visor. “I want to know if you’ve noticed anything odd amongst the staff who were aware that Sahba Madi was coming in today.” He shrugs.

“I don’t really know the others.” Another swig of coffee. “I’m sorry, I have another patient to check up on. How could I get back in contact with you miiiiissss—”

“Oracle. And I’ll contact _you._” She storms off without asking for a card.

“Lisa, don’t you think that was a bit—” Taylor starts, but Lisa’s already pulling up her phone and dialing the number for Director Piggot.

“_Oracle?” _

“Director. We have a leak.”

“_...what.” _

“We. Have. A. Leak.” Lisa growls, fighting down the memory of someone else responding to her anger. “One of the doctors I just interviewed read an article about our latest murder… _with _the crime scene photos.”

“_...I see.” _Piggot hisses, and Lisa can hear a death threat in the syllables aimed at whoever had violated her trust. _“I promise I will give this the due attention it requires, Oracle. Do you want to halt the investigation to deal with this?”_

“No point. I’ve already started the interviews, might as well finish before we deal with this mess.” Her headache, ever present but usually ignorable, bursts to the forefront like an endbringer siren, blasting through her subconscious (like snippets of a song she’s sure she’s never heard.) “I’ll update you if anything changes. Oracle out.”

“...idiot.” Taylor says, and for a horrifying second, Lisa thinks she’s talking about her. “Whoever did the leak.” She continues, a coy smile growing on her face. “I mean, if Piggot doesn’t kill him, _you _certainly will.”

The tightness in Lisa’s chest snaps, and she whirls on Taylor.

“Don’t—” She catches herself. “Don’t joke about that. I thought you—” _I thought you weren’t like everyone else. I thought you liked me. I thought— _

Taylor’s finger comes up to her lips and her thought process completely halts.

“I’m sorry.” Taylor murmurs, like she’s speaking to a wounded animal, “but I’d rather have you hate me but talking to me then ignoring me.”

All of the fight drains out of Lisa at once. She almost collapses into Taylor’s arms right there, if not for fear of what that might mean and the exposure of being in the hallway of a hospital where there were cameras and anyone could walk by and see.

Taylor picks up on the second (and hopefully not the first) and drags her into one of the hospital's frankly disgusting bathroom’s. The memories of highschool almost distract her from the mess she’s made of the only good part of this mess. “I get it.” Taylor’s saying, and Lisa’s the _worst _for spacing. “Something happened, it rattled you, and I was a part of it. So you distanced yourself from me in an attempt to get away from it. But I can’t work with you if you’re not talking to me, Lisa. So talk to me.”

“I _can’t._” Lisa won’t cry. She won’t cry. She holds back the building tide with everything she has. “I’m sorry, T— Gordian, but I just can’t talk about that right now.” Or ever.

“It doesn’t have to be about whatever happened the other day.” Taylor promises, and a hand comes to her shoulder (and drifts, just for a second to her neck.) “But you need to talk to me.”

“I’m _fine.” _Lisa insists, her voice warbling, the traitor, but she keeps herself from completely collapsing in this god-awful bathroom.

“I know you’re fine.” And now the hand is on her neck and drifting up to what’s exposed of her face, lower cheek burning under cool digits. “I just want you to know that I’m here if you don’t _want _to be fine.”

Lisa doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nods and tries her best not to lean into the touch. Gordian’s gloves prevent her from feeling the undoubtedly smooth texture of her skin, and she grapples with the burst of disappointment. After forever and a second passes, Lisa finds the will to speak.

“We should…go.” Every movement of her mouth against Taylor’s fingers sends more volts to her nerves, every inch of skin hyper-aware of the contact (and selfishly wanting _more_)

“Yes.” Taylor agrees. “We should.” But even so, the hand removes itself slowly, and for a moment she imagines a small frown on Taylor’s face, but it’s gone between blinks.

They leave the bathroom, and Lisa’s somehow left feeling even more adrift in the wake of Taylor Hebert.

* * *

“Sorry,” says Maria Riley-Portal, a middle aged nurse with tanned skin and an even more exhausted disposition than Lisa. “I’m afraid I really can’t say. Patient asked some questions, took some tests, filled out some forms, we put her under, did the op, she walked out and went home. Nothing particularly strange happened. She was pretty woozy when she woke up, but it’s not like any of us offered to drive her home or some shit.” She shrugs. “I’ll get back in contact if I can think of anything, but you’re better off looking at who else might have known she was coming in.” Maria’s fingers twitch, and Lisa can see the desire to fulfill an addiction in the woman’s face. She empathizes. Getting high honestly sounded pretty good right now.

“Thank you for your time.”

They move on, asking other medical staff. As expected, no one really remembers anything. In a cape city like Brockton, every day was a busy day, filled with people limping through the doors with injuries that were oft unexplained. In the rush of everyday life, an uneventful, minor surgery fell through the cracks of memory. Even the security cameras seem to have forgotten her, barely a ghost of the bright young woman existing on digital recollections. She left the hospital alive and without any obvious tails, and there were no hints of anyone accessing the computer with her information that shouldn’t have been.

Taylor and Lisa leave the hospital with nary a clue or hope.

“Any ideas on who might have done it?” Taylor asks once they’re safely on the roads.

“It has to be someone who knew she was getting surgery and where she lived.” Lisa responds, fighting off memories of the choir that had drowned her own thoughts out. “No one accessed her records who shouldn’t be. Meaning it’s either Jackson, Everett, Riley-Portal, or someone we missed.”

“Hm. Who do you want to start looking into first?” A lane change that leaves Lisa’s breath in the backseat, and her brain swirls with the motion.  
  
“I want background checks on all three, but let’s focus on Jackson and then move down the list.”

They pull up to the PRT headquarters, and Lisa only spends a few minutes thinking about _it _before she’s once again in the elevator with Taylor, and there’s not exactly a lot of breathing room, and now her thoughts are more centered on her face, and the ghost sensation of gloved fingers, soothingly cool against her face. She shifts, unwilling to step back and imply that there’s anything wrong (and even more afraid to step closer and move over some invisible line.)

Fortunately, it’s hardly slow, and she’s soon free from trying to puzzle out the rules of the game Taylor’s playing with her (it’s a game which she has forgotten the rules to. Threw out the instructions and the cards, trading in Life for Clue.)

It’s really not reassuring to see what appears to be the entire Wards team huddled around their computer, all of them turning to stare at her. And when she can see the hint of a website that boldly reads **TATTLECRIME**, and Lisa just _knows _this is gonna be great. She’s..._familiar _with Tattlecrime. Siren chasers who had a habit of giving serial killers and mass murderers the exact kind of sensationalism that spurned them on.

“Oracle.” Gallant says, voice more terse than she’s heard it so far. “I tried to get ahold of you, but—”

“Let me guess.” She walks forwards, and Kid Win scrambles back to make room like she’s contagious (_fo·lie à deux, noun; a delusion or mental illness shared by two people in close association_.) “Our rat sprung more leaks.” She glares at the screen and then her heart sinks into her gut, and the organs _squeeze. _

> **IT TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE. **
> 
> _Written by Franklyn Hounds_
> 
> The Brockton Bay PRT branch has been using Wards to do their work for them since the inception of the program, but now they’re grabbing whichever kid has a knack for monsters and throwing her at them, regardless of what happens. Brockton Bay has seen this Ward, Oracle, for months, solving the city’s numerous murders that the police are too inept to solve and the adults too busy to bother with. An anonymous source leaked photos of this barely-18-year-old risking life and limb and sanity to catch these killers. The question must be asked: is Oracle in any shape to perform a job meant for policemen when she appears to be unable to stomach it? More below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back.


End file.
